Equinox
by Ghostey
Summary: John Winchester races against the clock in order to find a way to stop the force killing his son Dean while keeping Sammy in the dark to the world about hunting.
1. Prologue

**Equinox: Prologue**

Two years ago, when Dean had been in the second grade, his teacher, a visually inspiring bouncy blonde came up with a school wide relay race. The idea was simple, one representative from each class would partake in a race between the grades and then the big finale, winner take all, race for grades K-5. The oldest Winchester son easily beat the other second graders - but then the teachers decided to change the course for the final.

One of the parts of the race was a twenty-five-feet trek through ankle deep ice water…

Bare foot…

Ice with a little bit of water was more appropriate because it was freakin' cold and Dean was seriously considering killing his teacher when he got to the end of the relay.

The first couple steps numbed his feet. Then the water seemed to prick him and poke him with hundreds of needles, bristling over his toes and heels and the arches of his feet. Needles over every single inch of his feet and they hurt.

This only reinforced his notion that teachers were sadists and school was evil.

After a while the needles all blurred together and the water just kind of burned his whole feet. That's silly isn't it? When something gets too cold it feels like it is burning?

By the time Dean reached the end of the death pool his feet ceased to feel anything, instead a feeling akin to a limb falling asleep, it deadened his feet and he clumsily finished the race. He got first place, of course, but the feeling of ice cold water earned a place on the "Dean Hates" list – right up there whatever killed Mom, Dad coming home late, and changing Sam's diaper when he was a baby (a necessary evil.)

But two years ago it had been only his feet, and this was much, much worse.

"Dean!" The small voice of Sam cried out from the bridge, but in fact, he could hear little more than the roar of the water at all. Sam leaned his small frame over until he was halfway over the railing himself. "Dean!" He yelled again.

Dean couldn't really hear Sam with the water rushing over his head. Dean had taken his brother out for a walk in the woods behind the brother's temporary apartment, but when they got to the bridge crossing the rapids Dean miscalculated a step and slipped over the railing.

When he hit the water Dean dimly saw his baby brother over the railing. He propped his head out of water best he could, for need of both air and to yell at his brother to stop leaning over the rail. He gasped and wheezed a mouth full of icy water and crisp air. He choked out the water and before he got to take another breath the water pulled him under.

The familiar sensation of stinging racked his body as he contorted in the rapids, and just as he felt his body starting to shut down from lack of air and the freezing cold his back thudded up against a large boulder and he hazily realized he could pull himself up onto bank.

"I'm alright," Dean remarked, crawling up the icy shore of the river.

"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly again.

"I'm okay," Dean said shivering and rubbing his hands against his arms.

"I'm sorry," Sam started to sniffle, carefully running to the edge of the bank. The rocks were icy from the rainfall the previous night, and Sam climbed down on hands and knees before rushing over to his brother's side.

Dean was soaked from head to toe in freezing water. He was visibly shaking and Sam undid his scarf to wrap it around Dean's neck. "I guess slipping off the bridge wasn't a great idea. How would you score me for that swan dive Sammy?"

Sam's little hands helped Dean up and the two climbed up the rocky bank of the river. "We should call Daddy," Sam said, trying to be helpful.

Dean shook his head more violently than was necessary, and he coughed out, "No."

"But Dean, he'll want to know that…"

"No, let's just get back home. I'll take a warm shower and it'll be okay," Dean shrugged.

Sam didn't reply, just pulled Dean up the final edge of the bank.

"Are you cold Sammy?" Dean asked, he didn't care about his own welfare, but he wanted to be sure that his brother was fine in the cold weather.

"Dean I'm sorry," Sam said meekly.

"For what Sammy? It's my fault that I was walking too fast."

"For asking to go on a walk, I know Daddy said that we needed to stay inside."

Dean smiled, "It is alright, he doesn't have to know. He wouldn't be home until late tomorrow anyway. Let's just get cleaned up before dinner."

Sam looked at his brother warily with wide eyes, Dean was hurting, he must have gotten banged up when he hit the river rocks. "Dean, we need to tell Daddy."

"No we don't, it'll be fine."

Sam's eyes flitted from tree to tree, tracking some unknown shadow that he felt in his heart. Sam felt that something was watching the two young brothers, and he hurried along with Dean back to the path to their apartment.

But the older brother was starting to degenerate from his bath in the freezing waters. Dean slipped and fell more than once and each time Sam panicked in his own six-year-old way.

"We're almost there Sammy," he reassured his baby brother after each time it happened.

They were in fact near the rundown apartment that the Winchester family called home for the past few weeks; they lived on the first floor of the cheapest joint in town. John had been working local jobs, enough so that Dean and Sam could go to the same school for more than three weeks.

Before they got in Dean tripped one last time and he rubbed his chest with a slight grimace on his face.

"Dean, are you okay?" Sammy felt the eyes watching them again, building to a heavy pressure in his chest.

"I don't know," Dean faltered, "Something felt like… I don't know."

Sam looked fearfully at his brother, "I'll go turn the bath on."

"Yeah, sounds good little brother," Dean nodded weakly. Inside, Sam ran to the bathroom and Dean stripped off his cold wet jacket, leaving it on the floor. He looked over to the window on the side of the room by the door.

Suddenly, Dean was racked by the overwhelming sensation of cold… slicing across his heart and the feeling was so sudden and so surprising that he collapsed onto the ground with wide eyes. He couldn't breath and it felt like his heart had literally been frozen.

He managed to lift his head a few inches, just to look out the window. Outside stood a dark shadow and Dean looked at it for a few seconds without blinking. When he finally did, it had vanished.

"Dean! The water's warm!" Sammy called from the bathroom.

His eyes lingered on the window for a moment then he limped over to the bathroom, the feeling of pure terror he had just experienced slowly leaving his system. Nevertheless, he could feel Sam's fear about their father walking in radiating from the small boy. "Sammy, today's the twenty-second, Dad didn't say he would be back until the twenty-third."

Dean ditched the jeans, and his long sleeve shirt on the linoleum floor of the bathroom, leaving him in a pair of black and grey plaid boxers and his grey undershirt. Thinking to himself, Dean realized that he probably should've removed all his clothes but he suddenly felt very self-conscious about the whole ordeal. He lowered himself, freezing clothes and all, into the tub of warm water and slowly felt the numbness and shock that he had earned from his dip in the river melting away.

However, the fright of the shadow remained. "Sammy, lock the door and put down some fresh salt okay?"

"Okay Dean," Sam nodded and hesitated before letting himself lose the sight of his brother.

When he was gone, Dean slid down tub, until his entire body except the head sank beneath the warm water. He closed his hazel eyes and sighed.

When Sam walked back in, he cupped his hand in the water and poured it over Dean's head, whispering, "Your ears must be cold."

Dean laughed, "I'll be okay in a minute Sammy. Thanks for the help."

**Disclaimer**: Don't own the boys or Supernatural. They belong to the CW and Eric Kripke. I'll gladly borrow them for the night if those kind gentlemen would let me wink

**Author's note:** Honestly I'm just throwing this out there to see what people think. Yes, I'm still posting my Dresden crossover, but updates for that are on Saturday. The way I see it, if people are _waiting_ for chapters, it'll be a hell of a lot more encouraging then it just sitting on my computer. So… **REVIEW** and tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 1

**Equinox: Chapter 1**

Eleven-year-old Dean Winchester was one tough cookie, taking on spirits, black dogs, and raising his baby brother to boot - but for the last month his father, John Winchester, couldn't figure out what to do with the boy. John found himself staying back at the motel more and more because Dean was too sick or too fatigued to watch Sammy.

The eldest Winchester just didn't know what to do, Dean had never posed this much trouble before, but he was so stubborn about not going to the doctor. _Mary help me, I don't know what to do with your boy. _John was at wits end, and he was nearing the point where he'd have to trick Dean into the trip, or convince _Sammy_ to tell Dean to the go with John to the clinic. Then he'd meet a whole other world of problems, not the least of which would be scaring his youngest.

John wanted to take Dean to the hospital, find out what was wrong with his oldest son, but Dean adamantly told him he would rather just stay home and watch his brother. A week ago when John was going to take him Dean hit him, _fought_ John to stay home.

The widow had leaned over Dean's bed once morning, hoping Dean was groggy enough not to protest the trip to the hospital when Dean hit him. _Hit his father… jeez Mary, you were always so much better at this than me._ John reprimanded Dean, and ideally, as punishment he would've taken his oldest to the local clinic on the Native American reservation nearby, but John had to get to work in the automotive shop two towns over.

John Winchester had taken up residence in a small town in Tennessee where he found evidence of a few potential hunts in the surrounding area. John did that more and more, staying in a hub city while his "business" took him to neighboring towns or counties so that his boys could go to school.

The widowed father knew that Dean needed to be checked out, but there was a Wendigo that was killing hikers a few hours away and a poltergeist that was begging to be snuffed out a couple of towns over and pretty soon that month turned into six weeks and into two months and the end of February drew near.

It wasn't that he wasn't concerned, far from it, but he had to keep working in order to have a reason for staying so long in one place. Not to mention keep a steady job in the process… between work and _work_ John had little time to watch the boys. Which was fine, because Dean was getting to the age where he could watch Sammy by himself and not need to be shipped off to Bobby's or Jim's while John was on a hunt.

_It's so hard Mary… I just don't have time to fight with Dean._

The trouble was that his oldest would be unnaturally clumsy, dropping things around the apartment and losing focus easily. Also, Dean was getting lethargic, during basic training John found the boy getting winded on the simplest of exercises; even Sam was out running him in foot races. In addition, he was going to bed earlier than normal and sleeping in late. John even caught him napping when the father returned from grocery shopping and told him to keep an eye out for Sammy.

Little six-year-old Sammy looked at John with his big eyes and curly mop of hair with sadness - melancholy that no boy should have on his face at that age. Sammy would say that Dean fell asleep and wouldn't play with him. John picked Sam up and sat him at the kitchen table and placed a bowl of Spagettios in front of him, assuring the boy that his big brother was fine, just a bit tired. After telling his youngest to eat, John lifted Dean gently and transported him onto the bed where he dozed for another half-hour to hour.

When Dean woke up he got extremely flustered at falling asleep and then got really quiet when John reprimanded him lightly for not paying attention on the job.

John just cut him some slack however, Dean had bags under his eyes, and would shuffle his feet around the small apartment even in the middle of the afternoon. No, something wasn't right, and John was determined to see Dean get better.

With Sam taking a bath, John was taking an hour break from researching another spook three hours away. So the father sat on the ratty old couch flipping channels on their television, eyeing his oldest carefully as Dean stirred a pot of chicken noodle soup that would serve as dinner for the young Winchester family. John never had much luck with that stovetop, things tended to catch on fire when he tried to cook. Before, before Dean was sick that was, Dean laughed at his father when some omelets caught fire while John pulled out the fire extinguisher. Sam had learned a new word that day and told his father that he had "_abysmal_ cooking skills."

John didn't think he learned the word abysmal until the eighth grade, and certainly didn't need it for anything except describing some of his experiences in Vietnam.

Since that incident however, Dean did most of the cooking, whatever meals weren't from the local diner. Therefore this even, Dean, with the utmost attention, poured a portion of the hot soup into a plain white porcelain bowl for himself. Leaving the rest in the pot at a low simmer for Sammy and John.

John stopped switching channels, getting a feeling that something was about to happen with his unfortunate son and the unassuming soup bowl. Sure enough, with John watching intently, Dean tiptoed about halfway to the couch when the bowl simply fell out of his hands.

The glass bowl shattered when it hit the linoleum floor sending shards of bowl in a halo around Dean and a wave of scalding chicken broth at Dean's bare feet. Star shaped noodles and carrot cubes littered the floor among the broken glass and liquid.

The young boy stared at the mess dumbly, not sure of what to do. If John was any other man and didn't know his boys he would have bet that Dean would've started to cry at the scene… simply looking at the chaos blankly and then bursting into tears. But John knew better than that, and what he saw was Dean trying to comprehend what had just occurred.

The father stood up off the couch and as he approached his son he expected Dean to look at him brightly, saying, "don't worry Dad, I'll take care of it," but no such answer came. Instead Dean just continued to gaze at the ground, his hands still frozen where they had let go of the bowl.

"I got you Dean," John said, picking him up and heaving him over his broad shoulder. John strode back into the living room with Dean gracing his shoulder limply. John couldn't be sure what Dean was thinking, whether or not Dean was still staring blankly or if he had closed his eyes to when John had picked him up.

Dean hated when John had to carry him, it seemed childish, and if John had to carry him after getting hurt or something like that Dean would get squeamish and demand to be set down. But this time no such argument took place, and Dean simply let himself be lifted out of the ground zero of soup disasters. "I don't want you stepping on the glass. Okay buddy?" John asked patronizingly as he deposited Dean on the couch and went back to the kitchen for a damp cold kitchen towel.

John rubbed Dean's feet of the soup gently, meanwhile, Dean stammered out, "Sorry Sir."

"It's no problem, just an accident Dean. It happens." John draped the towel on his son's feet and took Dean's hands into his. "Can you feel this Dean?" he asked, curious as to why the bowl just dropped.

Dean nodded submissively, so John said, "I'll be right back."

John returned with a needle in the palm of his hand where Dean wouldn't see it. Doing the same massaging he had before John turned Dean's palm down and quickly pricked it with the pin.

The boy didn't so much as flinch.

John did it again with the other hand it elicited no response. "Are you sure you can't feel my hands Dean?"

"Yeah I can, they feel good," Dean lied.

John frowned at his son and flipped the needle so Dean could see it.

Dean's face paled with the realization that _John knew_ that Dean was lying.

"How long were you planning on not telling me this Dean? This is important," John sighed. Before Dean could respond, John continued, "I'm taking you to the clinic tomorrow Dean, this is serious."

"But Dad…"

"No buts, you're going. You know what this means?!" John erupted, "Dean, don't be stupid! If you were with me on a hunt? What if you're home with Sammy and something happens?"

"I'll take care of it," Dean said sullenly, "I can still protect Sam Dad… I promise."

"NO DEAN YOU CAN'T! Not with paralyzed hands! You think you can hold a gun?! You think you can hold a knife? You can't even hold onto a bowl to feed you and your brother!" John gripped Dean's shoulders and the boy looked at him wide-eyed and scared. Dean was trembling… he was probably scared enough as it was, and he didn't need his father yelling at him to have him know the consequences of what might happen if Dean was injured. John paled and let go of Dean shaking; he was frightening his own son. _Mary I'm going too far, I… I didn't mean to hurt your boy._ The widow set a calloused hand on Dean's shoulder reassuringly, began to speak then stopped… _Give yourself a moment Winchester, calm down. Yelling's not gonna make it any better and it sure as hell isn't making Dean any better._ In a softened voice John finally continued, "Now, let me help you get ready for bed so you can get your rest after we have dinner."

His oldest pouted, but didn't say anything, knowing he'd been caught. John helped Dean with some Neosporin and wrapped his hand where John had pricked him. John mussed Dean's blonde hair, and went over to clean up the mess. Dean dejectedly sat on the couch, not looking up from his lap, and when John poured fresh bowls for the three of them he called Dean over for dinner.

John frowned when Dean didn't look up. "Dean…"

Nothing.

"Dean?"

"I think he's sleeping Daddy…" Sam interjected, stepping out of the bedroom, in his pajamas and towel around his shoulders.

He sighed, and picked up Sam and placed him in one of the chairs around the dining table, wanting to make sure Sammy didn't step on any remaining potential broken glass. Then John went over and picked up Dean, who mumbled something in his sleep. John carried Dean into the bedroom, where Dean and Sam shared the queen and John took the single. He tucked Dean under the covers and patted his head, "Good night kiddo…"

**Author's Note: **Howdy ya'll! Brought you lovely readers technically chapter 1 of this story, as you can see, I love John. Obsessively. So, yep, focus is on Papa Winchester, doing his thing. By the way, if you are "up" on Supernatural, you should know that "Rising Son" came out and it is _awesome._ Seriously, the emotions in it really drove me to finish up this story, and even add a lot more to it, especially John's emotions and prayers for his deceased wife and the brotherly banter between Sam and Dean. And I'm sorry this is so late! My flight home got delayed hence no internet hence late update.

As _usual_ it is the plea of broke (and now bored because it's summer) college student… please leave a **REVIEW** by way of the pretty purple button. I know ya'll have it on alert. Leave me a note


	3. Chapter 2

**Equinox: Chapter 2**

Eleven o'clock the next morning, and John gently shook Dean's shoulder to wake him up as he usually did only much later than was routine. "Come on kiddo, it's almost lunch time. Time to wake up and get ready to go." John frowned and Dean shifted restlessly, but didn't wake when John tried to gently prod his oldest son awake.

Dean groggily rubbed his eyes with a curled fist, dazed at the light filtering through the blinds and making stripes on the bed. He blinked lazily at John and sat up slowly, stopping halfway up as vertigo passed over him and he held his forehead until it passed and he sat up all the way.

The widower sat next to Dean on the bed, wrapping one arm around his son so he wouldn't fall over. "Do you think you can eat champ?" John asked with hesitation, careful to make sure he wasn't overly mothering his son. Dean hated it when John treated him as a kid; he was Daddy's Little Man, not a child. Still, it worried John that his son was having trouble even sitting up.

"Dean!" Sam called from the other room, the sound of his pattering feet drawing closer until he stood in the bedroom doorway. "Dean! Dean! Let's play Go Fish!" Sam was holding the boy's deck of cards, which was missing at least three or four cards that Dean had replaced by scribbling over the rules and jokers from the pack. They weren't anything special, but Sam loved the game because it was something he readily beat his brother at.

"Not now Sammy, Dean's not feeling well," John said before Dean had the chance to respond, knowing full well that once again Dean would insist that he was _fine,_ and that he was completely up to playing Go Fish or Old Maid or Rummy or whatever with little Sammy. He placed the back of his hand on Dean's forehead before saying, "Dean's got a fever, and he needs to take it easy the next couple days. Pack up Sammy, we're taking Dean to the clinic." Dean didn't have a fever before, and John frowned at the new symptom. _It's changing Mary, and I'm playing catch up with this damn thing…_

"But he promised!" Sam whined. Sam got that way when he didn't get as he want – John supposed it was part of his almost non-existent parenting skills, especially when Dean wasn't there or able to calm Sam down. As usual, Sam pouted and his cheeks puffed out as if holding his breath, stomping one of his feet up and down on the carpeted floor impatiently.

"Dad, I told Sammy I would," Dean pitched in, almost simultaneously with his baby brother, trying to stand up, but John gently pressured his son to stay on the bed. Dean didn't like being sick, and avoided it at all costs – by saying he wasn't the young boy hoped that it would become true.

John looked at the two of them, and then his eyes settled back on Sam, "Don't worry, Dean'll play later. How about I play with you after we go to the doctor? Or as soon as we get some medicine for Dean? Does that sound good?" He really had to compromise with the younger boy. If Sam was going to throw a temper tantrum it would cause headaches all around for the winding and slightly treacherous trip to the clinic. The roads were still icy from the better part of the winter and John wanted to focus on driving rather than his sons in the backseat.

Sam's face scrunched up into a scowl and he pouted, "I wanna play with Dean!"

The eldest Winchester saw that the argument was going nowhere in a hurry, so, he stood up off of Dean's bed and went over to his younger son. Holding on of Sam's shoulder's with a steady grip he leaned in and said firmly, "Sam, if I need to tell you again that you can't play with Dean right now then you're going to be in timeout for the rest of the day and you have to give me two sets of pushups."

"Dad…" Dean protested, mumbled weakly. The oldest son stood up awkwardly, half standing, and half still on the bed, holding onto the headboard as a support for his weight. His feet were tangled in the mess of comforter that he must have thrown away in the middle of the night because of the fever.

"Get back into bed Dean," John ordered, a little more harshly than he intended his finger directed pointedly at the middle of the bed. Dean was in _no_ shape to be entertaining his brother, and John made it clear with his direct tone that he was in no mood to deal with unruly boys today. His command earned him a pursed frown from Sammy but Dean didn't motion to follow John. He swayed slightly and was no longer looking at either John or Sam, lost in his own fight to stay standing.

"Dean?" John asked more gently when his son didn't respond.

"Yessir," Dean slurred. His shaky grip on the bedspread no longer seemed to support the young boy and once more he swayed, his hand slipping from the headboard.

"Dea?" Sam asked, dropping his frown and looked scared at his pale brother, gripping his pack of cards tightly enough that his knuckles turned white.

Dean's knees buckled and he twisted in the tangles of the comforter.

_Mary…_

In slow motion, John watched as Dean's eyes rolled back into his head and the small boy wobbled slightly before toppling over bringing the rest of the untidy comforter with him. "Dean!" John cried, pitching forward and catching Dean's body before his head could hit the floor.

_Mary please…_

Vaguely John noticed that Sammy to his left started crying, but John was too focused on cradling Dean's body and untangling him from the mess of sheets and comforters to comfort his other son. "Dean? Wake up son," John lightly slapped the side of Dean's face but it only served to have his head loll sideways against John's chest unceremoniously.

_Oh God Mary… I need you…_

"Come on Dean, don't do this…" John panted as he shook Dean's shoulder more vigorously. John's fingers laced in-between Dean's and John tightened the grip, scared of the fact that no matter how John poked and prodded his oldest, Dean wasn't waking up.

_What's wrong with our son?_

"Daddy!" Sammy blurted out, trying to hold Dean himself, but John's large embrace prevented Sam from grabbing hold of his big brother. Large tears streamed down Sam's cheeks and his wails made him seem much younger than his six years. Sometimes John wondered if Sammy would ever stop being that little boy that Dean and him looked after – sometimes wished he never had to. "Daddy! Why won't Dean wake up?"

Dean was clammy to the touch, more so than John originally noticed when seeing if his son had a fever. He was pale and shivering, and ever since passing out he looked worse and worse as each second ticked by.

Pressing Dean against his chest and hoisting the boy up, John gruffly turned to Sam and said, "Sammy, go get the keys from the pocket in my jacket."

"Yes sir," Sam replied meekly. Dad would take care of Dean, Dad could make everything better, so Sammy had to be a good boy and help Daddy.

John spread the comforter back out onto the bed with one hand and laid Dean back onto the bed and wrapped the large comforter around Dean's body. Fever was tricky, but it was still almost freezing out in the Tennessee mountains that John didn't want to risk getting Dean any more sick. "Nice and easy kiddo," John muttered as he once again lifted Dean up to his chest. John didn't want to throw his son over his shoulder in order to respond quickly if Dean woke up, so he held him with his strong arms underneath Dean's knees and Dean's shoulder blades.

Sam came bounding back holding the keys to the Impala reverently like it was the only thing in the world that would make Dean better.

John took the keys Sam's hands and told him, "Go get your jacket on Sammy while I get Dean into the car." John, though worried about his son, was determined to run a tight ship. When things went wrong, John Winchester met trouble with the hardened experience of a soldier.

Sam nodded and ran over to the coat rack that had his long brown coat. He put in on hastily and he looked funny with his brown coat and striped pajamas on underneath but neither Sam nor John cared much about aesthetics.

"Got your boots on?" John asked.

"Yes Sir," Sam replied.

The Winchester family piled out into the cold winter weather and Sam helped John by opening the backseat of the Impala where John laid Dean out lengthwise across the seat. Sam crept by Dean's feet and buckled his seatbelt.

"Good job Sammy," John commented as he got into the driver's seat behind the wheel.

The nearest hospital wasn't actually an emergency room as much as a clinic on the Native America reservation that was nearby. John peeled out of the ramshackle apartment parking lot and onto the rundown main street of the dilapidated town.

When he was working the Wendigo job John made acquaintances with an older man, Gerard Evans, of the local tribe of Cherokee. He helped John with determining where the thing called its "home" and the research on its patterns. It was a standard job, but the man seemed to approve of John, and they had a mutual respect for one another.

John hurried to the reservation, he could feel the constant stream worry emitting from his youngest in the back and his own heartbeat getting faster. The reservation was the closest thing resembling a hospital, although that was a stretch to say the least. After the wendigo, Evans had patched up the minor burn injuries John had sustained after torching the creature. The clinic was small, and serious injuries would have had to be transferred to the county hospital, but it was enough for the mountain town.

As he drove up to the clinic John saw that Evans' Jeep wasn't in parking lot, meaning that the old man wasn't in. John sighed, he had hoped that Evans would be there - a familiar face would have been nice. John put the Impala into park and with help from Sam lifted Dean up into his arms once more.

The youngest dutifully gathered up his backpack and Dean's coat from the back seat as John walked up the steps to the clinic.

A young doctor who John vaguely recognized from around town immediately got a bed prepared for Dean and remained somber. Erin Holmes was the husband to a contact that John used on occasion with some of the more local hauntings and who had watched the boys when John felt they needed someone with them. Doctor Holmes asked the usual questions, most of which John could only answer with a shrug. John Wallace. Here's my insurance. Yes, I'm a friend of your wife. This is Dean and my youngest Sam. No, he didn't know if Dean had eaten anything he was allergic to. Yes, his son had been sick before this. He wasn't sure if Dean had passed out before when he had been working.

Sam remained oddly silent during the doctor's interrogation, clinging to John's pant leg. He looked up worriedly at his father while the doctor worked, casting fleeting glances to his older brother.

"I was planning on taking him in today. He's been sick the past few weeks, not himself you know? Just yesterday he was… I don't know… he had trouble moving his hands. Sort of sluggish."

Holmes sighed as his finished taking blood samples. He ran a hand through his dark hair and looked at John earnestly, "John, I don't know why your boy's sick but…" he glanced down at Sam awkwardly before continuing, "Doctor Evans will probably know more when he gets in and when we run some tests. Personally… John. I'm not gonna lie to you, from what you've said, and from the symptoms I've seen? It looks like Dean is suffering from..."

John growled, "What's wrong with my son?"

Holmes gulped, "I'm worried your son is presenting evidence of late ketoacidosis. It's a condition that develops when diabetes goes untreated. I've seen it a lot in my time here. And, if that's the case, it's extremely manageable, and we can work with you and your son. Right now, we'll focus on stabilizing Dean's glucose level and try to find what happened today."

The father frowned, and stared back at his car from the window. It was starting to snow. But there wasn't anything for John to do but wait. _Mary… I hope you're watching over your boy right now._

"Doctor Evans will be here in an hour or so," Holmes reassured, clapping a hand on John's shoulder.

John sat down impatiently, and Sam joined beside him. He fidgeted and Sam did the same. Finally, after fifteen minutes or so, while Holmes was checking once more on Dean, Sam's head tilted over and rested on John's arm. His youngest sniffled, and John wrapped a strong arm around Sammy. But John didn't feel like he was any comfort to the young boy – he was helpless, this wasn't something he could do anything about.

**Author's Note: **Sorry ya'll for the delay. I've been… okay… I haven't been busy. I've been extremely, _extremely,_ lazy. And I kinda reworked this, and the next three chapters _entirely._ I didn't like the pacing, so I did what any person does after returning and rereading their own work – throw a fit and redo all of it.

See below this? There's a magic purple button. Click it and see what happens.


	4. Chapter 3

**Equinox: Chapter 3**

John Winchester had been nodding off on one of the sofas in the small clinic. His youngest, Sam, was curled up next to him with his head in John's lap. Doctor Holmes had been considerate enough to offer the father and son a pair of microwavable dinners from the clinic kitchen, and when Sam had fallen asleep, Holmes had fetched an extra blanket for the six-year-old. It was getting dark outside and the snow had prevented Melville Evans from coming in when he was supposed to, so, nearing six in the evening Dean was still asleep and John was still feeling utterly helpless.

He could read Holmes expression easily – the doctor was young, and inexperienced, and obviously his confidant mask was wearing off as the hours ticked by that Dean had lapsed into a coma. John had half the mind to confront the doctor, but he decided against it as it would effectively get nothing accomplished except scare Sam and aggravate the situation.

John carefully got up and laid Sam's head on his jacket. He walked over guardedly with his arms across his chest. He frowned at his son, who was pale lying on the clinic cot. Dean's freckles were still there, and John thought back to when he and Mary were teens – his wife had freckles like that when they were young, up until she died in the summer she'd still freckle up.

Holmes awkwardly approached John, stuffing his hands in his coat pocket. "I wish I had good news for you Mister Wallace, but there's been no change. What basic tests that I have run nothing has popped up, not to say that we aren't going to find an underlying cause."

"So you don't know what's wrong with Dean," John said grimly.

"Umm… no."

"Do you have any idea?"

Doctor Holmes shuffled his feet a little bit, "We can't know for certain. Tests take time John, and there's a good chance that Dean'll wake up on his own. His stats look good and his breathing is regular. There's a slight hint of cardiac arrhythmia, a… an irregular heartbeat, which is very minor. Probably the result of Dean passing out, but still, it's minor and should even out with time."

"Dean had that when he was first born. Mary and I had to leave him in the hospital for a week," John said.

The doctor clapped his hands together, "That's good John, a preexisting condition may explain what's happening now. Did that work itself out? Or did Dean receive some type of treatment?"

John sighed, "Dean was born with the umbilical cord around his neck. The doctors believe it was the trauma of that which caused the odd heartbeat."

"Did your wife have any illnesses? Any history of fainting in her family?"

"No," John ran his hand through his hair anxiously, he was tired of the guessing game.

Holmes paused for a moment, hesitant before asking tentatively, "How did your wife die Mister Wallace?"

The father looked over at Sam, although he still seemed to be sleeping, still, he couldn't risk Sam knowing the truth. But at the expense of Dean's health? No, Mary didn't die of natural causes… so John's little white lies to protect his son were fine to use. "Car crash," he whispered.

The doctor nodded, "I'm sorry John."

John noticed a small movement from the bed and instantly his attention was on his son. "Dean?" He asked searchingly, "Dean? You awake kiddo?"

The boy moved slightly before his eyes fluttered open, albeit glazed, but awake nonetheless.

The father broke out into a wide genuine smile, "Dean." _Thank you dear. Oh man… thank you so much Mary._

Dean looked around anxiously, and when he saw Sam's legs on the couch he relaxed. "Where are we?" He asked, his eyes once more shining brightly – the same hazel as his mother.

"We're at the clinic. You gave us quite the scare Dean. Next time I say we're taking you to the hospital, you're going," John grinned, he was just happy to see his son awake and alert, "By the way Sam is going to demand that game of cards you promised him."

Dean grinned in return and tried to sit up, and John moved to stop his oldest. It probably wasn't smart to have Dean out of bed just yet and John wanted Dean to take it easy. However, Dean grimaced and stopped halfway on his own, soonfalling back onto the bed, pale and breathing rapidly. "Dad, I can't…"

"What's wrong Dean?" Doctor Holmes asked quickly, glancing at the Dean's vitals.

The boy shot a scared look to his father, and began frantically trying to swat away an invisible _something_ on his chest and abdomen.

"Dean what is it?" John asked, a slight panic raising in his voice. He saw nothing on the boy and was at a lost on how to comfort him or protect him. John had enough of a scare as it was seeing his oldest like this and he damn near had a heart attack when he heard Dean cry frantic like he was.

"Get… get off me! Dad!"

"Get off what Dean!? There's nothing there!" John glanced searchingly to Holmes, who was just as lost as John was.

"Dad! She's…" Dean began hyperventilating, desperate to get rid of his unseen attacker.

"Dean, what can I do?" John asked helplessly, trying to comfort and hold his son down at the same time. _She?_

Hazel eyes shot in his direction, pleadingly. "Do something!" Dean cried, eyes flashing.

"Dean, please relax," Holmes said professionally. "Mister Wallace? John?"

John froze, and time seemed to slow down with him. Holmes had turned to the cabinets along the wall, probably looking for a sedative. Dean was pushing away something with his hands. Grayness pervaded the whole scene. John stifled a cry as he saw Dean's attempts to combat the invisible enemy grow weaker and weaker. "Don't do this Dean," he whispered - it wasn't an order, it was a distressed plea to his son. Blinking in an attempt to ignore the tears beginning to burn his eyes, John watched in slow motion as Dean's muscles relaxed and his eyes closed once more.

"_John..."_

The father shook his head awake – having fallen asleep with Sam's head resting in his lap. John looked up at the older man that he recognized as Melville Evans. His eye twitched in the light of the clinic and he looked up tiredly at Evans. "What?" He asked gruffly, "How's my son?"

"Still asleep John," the older gentleman replied, a wary frown causing deep wrinkles on his face.

John cursed under his breath.

"I told Erin to go home to his wife. The wind and snow's calmed down for the moment so he was able to make it safely." Evans crossed his arms; the older man had a leathery face that showed years of tough Tennessee winters and hardships, but he was sinewy and strong in his own way.

"Anything new on Dean?" John asked rubbing his temple.

"No."

John sighed tiredly, "Man of few words. At least you don't sugar coat things like the other doctor."

"Erin is young, and hasn't realized what he's dealing with."

The father raised an eyebrow, "You do?"

"I have an idea." He moved to the small office he had at the clinic, looking somberly at John he said, "I have something to show you."

**Author's Note: **This is actually a totally new chapter, meaning, I hadn't originally intended this scene to be in the story at all but with the changes that I made in the last chapter and in following chapters I figured it'd be okay to add back in. In fact, I kinda like seeing John starting to fall apart at the seams – it's a healthy change from reading all my wonderful Dean angst.

And, as the story progresses, and as the comics have come out, this story will probably change even more to reflect the way the comic treats John. John is modeled after my own father (also named John) and the one from the comic, _not purely on conjecture from the show, _so he's a little kinder I think than how most interpret him – but also, in reading the comics it is evident that John is totally in the job while on the job, but when he's with the boys he's a tired burnt out man. I don't think John is harsh to the boys, I think at the end of the day he's just exhausted from kicking evil's ass. So, I've tried to show that.

Small apology to Lady Selenity – Yes. This was originally intended as a response to your challenge. Since that point, however, it grew into something wildly different than intended, and, more importantly, the episode _A Very Supernatural Christmas_ has aired since writing it. To that end, this story takes place in 1990, whereas the show revealed that Dean got his amulet from Sam in 1991. I could just as easily throw canon to the wind and say that he got it the Christmas before my story takes place but that would just be wrong in my mind. _However,_ I do still have a small mention of the amulet in the fic explaining why John was going to get it from Bobby in the first place.

And yes, it's a short chapter. I know. Deal with it. And sorry for the long AN, I felt it was necessary to defend my portrayal of John.

Anyway! PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW! (Capitals for emphasis! Yay!) I wanna hear your thoughts! Next chapter is beta-d and shiny and good but I want to hear what you think of the story so far before I post it! And thanks bundles for those who have reviewed and given me fantastic imput. The great thing about the reviews is its a fluid sort of feedback that molds and reflects in the story as I post it, so hopefully you find your imput important enough to tell me and I'll try to include it in the future!


	5. Chapter 4

**Equinox: Chapter 4**

"Has Dea waked up?" Sam asked sleepily when John moved to follow Evans. He must have woken up from the slight jostle that John gave and he sat up. "Daddy is Dean going to be okay?" He asked, looking at John for comfort and assurance that everything would be alright.

"Yeah son, Dean will be fine, we just have to wait a little bit," John said, trying to reassure himself more than his frightened son. He glanced at Evans who remained impassive at his office door. John gave one quick look to Dean and watched Sam as the youngest Winchester and followed Evans into his office. Evans closed the door behind him and motioned for John to sit down on the wooden window seat. As the oldest Winchester did just that, Evans joined him to his side.

"What is this about Evans?" John asked gruffly.

Evans sighed, "Well John, I owe you a great debt when you helped us with the monster stalking the woods."

John rolled his eyes, and said roughly, "What's the point of this Evans? What does that have to do with my son being sick?"

"When did you're son fall ill?"

"I don't know exactly, end of December, early January? I knew he was sick because I came home and he was sleeping when he normally would be awake watching his brother." John sighed, he racked his brain once more for the clues that Dean had given – small things like fatigue, coughing, whatever. Had Dean lost weight since then? Had there been other hints completely overlooked while John had balanced working and hunting? John knew that Dean wouldn't have said anything to his father or Sam – he probably would lie to himself about his health.

"John, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but when you were researching the town did you happen to stumble upon a pattern, around every seven years during the winter?"

John, with suspicion in his eyes, turned coldly to the older man, "No, I hadn't. I checked accident reports, medical records; nothing seemed out of the ordinary besides the hikers and the Wendigo."

"The Wendigo wasn't the only problem that this county has had for the past few years; in fact this has been going on long before I was a child." Evans sighed, and massaged his temple with his large hands. "I should have told you earlier to take your boys out of town, but I doubt it would have made a difference. Your boy probably was already marked by the time I met you…" Evans whispered to himself.

The widower frowned at the man, but asked in regards to the pattern, "What has been?" Evans didn't respond and frustrate John pounded on Evans's desk. "Damnit Evans… I want to know what you're dancing around. Why is my son sick?" John gave himself a second to take a deep breath. "Something's making Dean sick…" he guessed, a dark shadow passing over his face.

"Every seven years I've noticed a child from the town, a boy no older than 13, would fall ill in December. Many think it's just a winter cold gone bad, pneumonia or something like that. And I know that that happens more often than I'd like to admit as a medical professional. This thing has a pattern, it's always an older sibling, every seven years, like clockwork. The child would degenerate in health until they finally slip into a coma."

John snatched a look at the door where he knew his son was, he could imagine it – Dean lying deathly still with dark eyes and Sammy lying next to him, his arm draped over his brother in a one-sided embrace.

"John, the child always dies on the spring equinox."

John Winchester's features turned stony and he glared at the older man, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"You never said your son was sick. The way you talked about your boys it was as if Dean was older, fourteen or fifteen at least… _past_ the age I thought was the pattern," Evans frowned and looked out the window of his office. "I would have if I had known," he confessed, "Normally by this time a family would have brought their child into the clinic by now…"

"Now you're telling me I'm a bad father?!" John roared, standing up and pacing the room like a caged tiger. He was steaming… he knew he should have brought Dean in sooner; there must have been something that he could do from preventing his oldest from whatever this was. Protected him… John should have done _something. Mary how did I miss this?_

"I'm not saying you are John, and you have time to try to find it. I know it exists, I know you can help."

John let his body relax, "What if he's just sick? What if this is some illness or diabetes or… or something like Holmes suggested?"

Evans looked at him earnestly, "I'm telling you what I believe. I have seen boy after boy in my years working here die in my care. I've looked at this thing from every angle and I promise you that this isn't something medicine can cure." He sat heavily in his own chair, mulling over what to say next while John tried to calm himself down. Evans continued, "I promise to do my best to make your son better if medicine or some form of treatment is what it takes. But this is something you can do. Look into it."

_Mary. Is this the life I lead now? _John thought about what Mary would say, and he honestly didn't know how she would react to even considering that something paranormal was killing their son. It wouldn't have even crossed the mind of the couple on November first back in 1983. But here was John… now seriously wondering if something supernatural was stalking him where it meant the most – the boys.

Evans continued, "John, I thought that maybe this year it wouldn't happen. I thought that it broke pattern when no one came forward."

"You thought wrong!" John yelled once more, coming out of his reverie.

"I'm sorry John."

"How can I kill it?" John snapped. He began pacing the room again, one hand running through his hair anxiously and the other resting on the gun holstered on the small of his back. If there was something hurting their son Mary would tell John to find it and take care of it. _This is something I can do Mary. If this is something I can hunt, and kill? If I can… then I might be able to get your boy better. If this is something else… there's no harm in trying. For too long I believed that Dean was untouchable, some sort of sanctuary against the rest of the world, but Mary…_

_Oh Mary… I just want your son safe. By any means I'm gonna make sure Dean's okay._

"I don't know."

"_Can_ I kill it? Will it make Dean better?"

"Again, I don't know. I'm sorry. Tell me, did Dean ever mention seeing a shadow, or black figure while playing outside? A lot of the other children mentioned seeing a figure in the woods. Chalk it up to imagination or hallucinations – either way they saw something."

"No, he would have said something. I may keep this life from Sam, but I don't lie to Dean. He… He remembers the night Mary died – he knows what's out there and if something threatened him or his brother he would have said something," John replied, muffled by biting his own thumbnail nervously.

"Did he play outside in the woods in the last two weeks of December?"

John racked his mind about what happened on those days, but the only thing he could remember was that he was on a hunting trip the week before Christmas. Dean and Sammy were told to stay inside the apartment the whole time. "No, I was… I was working on a poltergeist. Dean and Sammy stayed inside at home."

"Are you sure?"

John gulped, and then answered slowly, "I gave Dean an order. He would have stayed inside when I was gone."

"It's important John, is there a way you can find out?" Evans asked raising an eyebrow, giving a fleeting glance towards the door where the boys were.

John strode over to the door and opened it to find the image he imagined earlier exactly how he pictured it. "Sammy?" John asked gently, "Sammy can you come here and answer a couple of questions for me?" Sam gave Dean a tight hug and slid off Dean's bed and waddled over to John, holding onto his father's blue jeans. He gave his father a scared look when John made to close the door. John noted that and stopped immediately, "Okay buddy, I'll leave the door open for you." John held Sam's hand and had him sit on the bench and he knelt before his youngest son, his large calloused hand never letting go of Sam's small pink one. "Sammy, when I was out in December, just before Christmas? Did you and Dean go out?"

Sam thought about it for a moment then answered with a quiet, "No…"

"Sam…" John said warningly, giving his son a patronizing look.

"Dean said that he was fine, and that you didn't need to know," Sam broke down.

John's gaze shifted from Sam to Evans then back to the boy, "What happened when you two when out Sammy?"

"I wanted to play in the snow. It was almost Christmas and Dean let me watch Frosty the night before…"

"And?"

Sam's face started to tear up but he continued, "And when we reached the bridge Dean slipped. He fell in the river, it was so cold but he was fine when we got back inside. He got in a warm bath and we cleaned the clothes he wore… he… he… he was okay, he said he was fine."

John's heart was sinking as Sam's tears turned into sobs.

Calmly the older doctor spoke to the boy, "Sam, did your brother say anything unusual when you got home?"

"He told me to make the bath…" Sam said, his body trembling as he curled slightly as though to make himself as small as possible.

"Anything else?" John interjected, gripping Sam's knee tightly with his free hand.

Sam winced, "Lay down salt."

John let go and slumped so his forehead rested in Sam's lap. Sammy curled his fingers into John's dark hair. "I'm sorry Daddy," he cried. "I didn't mean for Dean to get sick, I did everything I could so he wouldn't be cold…" he rambled on.

"It's okay Sammy, this isn't your fault," John sighed. He got up and added, "Hey kiddo, go back to your brother. Tell us if anything's wrong, I need to speak a little while longer with Mr. Evans."

Sammy dug a fist into his eyes and nodded to John, "Yes sir."

"Sam?" John asked, brushing away Sam's bangs reveling his son's red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"Yeah Daddy?" Sam sniffled.

"It's not your fault. I promise you. And I'm gonna get Dean better so you two can play Go Fish like Dean said you would," John assured his son. "Go back to your brother now," he said kindly, tousling Sam's hair and lifting his son up off the chair he pushed the young boy lightly toward the main part of the clinic. John followed Sam partway and closed the door once again. "Salt lines…" John frowned… "Dean saw something then just like you guessed."

"If he was worried about something then he must have seen the shadow."

"Why are you concerned about him going out? And why those dates?"

"Because that's how the other children got infected, they all were in the woods around the time of the winter solstice, I can only assume that that's where it calls its home," Evans elaborated. "It must have targeted Dean when your boys were on a walk."

John sat at the table on the opposite end of the room from the window seat and laced his fingers together in front of his mouth. "Tell me more about the other children," he said, John was trying to hide the desperation in his voice with all seriousness he had while working any other case, but it only made the father seem older than he really was.

"I'll go get my records," Evans replied, retreating to his grey rusting cabinet.

**Author's Note: **Yay! Chapter 4! Woo! And how about that season finale eh? Didn't get to change my author's note for the previous chapter to reflect on it but… wow… what a _fantastic_ episode doncha think? I won't ruin anything, but, me being a sucker for good (Note, was the good ending, not the ending many fans may have wanted, but a good one) endings and all, felt it ended how it needed to end. I didn't want some wishy washy, ninth inning comeback… no… it ended how it needed to end.

And I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Seriously.

No. I mean it.

Yeah, I do, in fact, mean that I wanted to see that ending. We can't all have those happy endings with the cavalry swooping in and saving the day. Just gotta wait for September.

And while we wait, insert unabashed plug right here LEAVE A REVIEW. Come on guys, we writers need something to snack on while we wait for the boys to be back.


	6. Chapter 5

Equinox: Chapter 5

**Equinox: Chapter 5**

Pulling out an indiscriminant key Evans unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside, a plain manila folder held a novel's worth of paper work, files, and photographs. Taking the seat opposite of John, Evans flipped through the papers nonchalantly. "I first started my intensive notes with the 1962 case when I finished my residency here at the reservation clinic, although I have evidence dating all the way back to 1843. 1962 case, first one I had here, a boy named Andrea Starks came down with what doctors described as pneumonia. He had reported seeing a 'shadow man' follow him the day of the winter solstice, both parents and doctors claim it to be a symptoms, hallucinations caused by the disease. He falls into a coma February 12th and dies March 20st at midnight."

John began rubbing his temple with his left hand as Evans continued down the list of children who had died since he started the record in 1962 – Andrea Starks… Richard Williams… Mark Parnell… David Banker…

Evans sighed, turning the last page of his notes and closing the folder… "Which leads up to now, 1990, eleven-year-old Dean Winchester."

John collapsed onto the table and his arms folded onto his head, "Oh God…" He knew that his boys got into trouble, that this lifestyle put them in the way of danger more than most children their age but never once had John imagined that the trouble would go after them, not after Dean.

Evans stared with sympathy to his new friend when John abruptly got up and opened the door of the office. "Excuse me," John said tiredly, "I have to go see my boys for a moment."

The older man nodded, "Go ahead. Take your time."

"Time's what I need more of."

John closed the door behind him. Taking a seat next to Dean's bed, he positioned Sam in his lap and rocked his youngest in his arms as he smoothed out Dean's hair. A minute passed then two then a half-hour. Before John knew it Sammy was asleep once more. Helping Sam into another bed and spreading a blanket over him he walked back to Evans who was looking through the papers again.

"You said the kids always died on at midnight on the spring equinox?"

"Yes," Evans replied, not sure exactly how to respond.

"Today's the 27th, which gives us twenty days before the equinox to find and stop this thing." John took the folder from the elder man, "This thing has addresses for the other boys? Right?"

Evans nodded, noting how John said "other boys" rather than "victims." With the Wendigo they were victims, not hikers or Evans' neighbors or people's children, siblings, spouses, or parents. When it involved John Winchester, he took every aspect of a case personally. Evans figured there was nothing more personal to John than his sons, and he would be a dangerous man if either of his sons were in jeopardy.

John scribbled down the addresses onto a scrap sheet of paper and pocketed it. "Mind if I borrow this for a couple days?"

"Anything to help," Evans offered.

The father dragged a wooden desk to Dean's bed but before sitting down himself at Dean's feet facing his son, John tucked a blanket over his sleeping body. Sam, who woke up when John came back into the room, crawled onto John's lap as he opened the file again. The boy seemed to not want to stay asleep, not while Dean was in danger, unfortunately he was only six and John knew he had to settle down soon.

Evans busied himself with the paperwork for the middle Winchester while John was with his sons. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Winchester family from the sidelines. John was hunched over in the chair with his youngest's hair brushing his cheek.

John was scrutinizing over every inch of the records, the first report of this shadow being was as Evans said in 1843, a seven-year-old boy named James Darrow. Darrow never reported a dark shadow and the only thing attaching him to the case was the manner and date of death was the same. According to the historical record, James died after contracting an "unknown ailment" attempting to rescue his mother after she had fallen into the local river. Died the night of the spring equinox.

James had been the oldest of four other siblings. Parents were named Aaron and Melinda Darrow. Probably the same Darrows that helped to found the town and owners of the large plantation in the nearby valley, John reasoned to himself. John didn't want to doubt Evans record keeping but everything about the Darrow death seemed wrong – yes, he fit the pattern, but with no mention of a shadow, and being only seven years old… the rest of the boys were nine to twelve, James had been much younger than that.

John leaned back in his chair bringing Sammy with him. The events of the day… hell the past couple weeks were catching up with the father. It surprised John that he was so negligent on taking Dean to the hospital and when someone finally tells him it could be something supernatural he seemed to jump right aboard with the idea. For all he knew this could be a wild goose chase and Dean needed real medical attention that the town clinic couldn't provide. _Have I really forgotten how to just be a normal father Mary? _

The oldest Winchester was so quick to blame the paranormal for this event… probably because it was easiest for him. John sure ignored normality when he started the hunt seven years ago for Mary… _Mary… what would you have done if Dean was sick like this?_

John recalled a night when their pediatrician came back saying that Dean had strep throat, Mary had been so anxious about it she literally shut herself, Dean, his medicine, and a week's worth of food in their bedroom, telling John to take care of Sammy until Dean got better. All because she was afraid of both her boys getting sick. John remembered holding four-month-old Sammy in his arms and the infant just giggling at him when Mary shut the bedroom door in his face.

Mary had always been the one to take care of Dean when he was sick, and when she died both John and Dean focused solely on keeping little Sammy safe and well.

It fit though, what Evans had described, and Sammy's testimony attributed to the stack of evidence pointing to such a diagnosis – and it comforted John that if something was responsible for this, then he could kill it – much like he was going to kill the son of a bitch who killed his wife.

"Dad? Are you going to help Dean?"

"Yeah Sammy, I am. It'll just take a little work."

"Can I help?"

"Sure you can, you have to make sure Dean is comfortable and if he looks like he hurting you'll tell me straight away won't you?"

"Yes sir."

"Good boy," John said ruffling Sam's hair, "Dean will be better in no time, we have to wait though."

Sam hugged John tightly, disrupting his father's papers and a loose sheet with dates of all the attacks on it and the corresponding names of the children who had died. John looked at it curiously, noting that there was a skip in the line where the 1934 case should have been.

"Evans!" John called as he settled his six-year-old back into a sitting position on his lap. The older man walked over to the father and John held up the paper incriminatingly. "You said every seven years since 1843 – what happened to '34?"

"A child didn't die from the shadow that year."

"And you didn't find that was a bit odd? A consistent pattern and when a child didn't die you think that's normal? This could be important to helping my son," John spat, harshness lining his last sentence. He would've decorated his language further, but Sam sitting in his lap was a reminder to keep his anger checked.

"What I mean John, is that the child didn't die _because_ of the shadow that year."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Must we go into this John?" Evans asked calmly.

John answered him with a cold glare and his eyes fleeting to Dean just for a moment.

Evans sighed, and took a deep breath before saying, "That year one of the local tribe members was infected. He displayed all the signs of the next child… all of us knew the signs. We had long known of such the local curse that took place every seven years we just hadn't at that point attributed it to the woods or the solstice."

The older man paused, remembering the details of that year with nostalgia written plainly on his wrinkled face. "That year, before he fell into the coma the child had told his family goodnight and jumped into the river rapids. When we found his body it was clear that he had hit his head when he landed on the river rock and died soon after that. He didn't want the shadow to claim him, nor did he want his death drawn out like it would have been."

"That's a big decision for a boy," John remarked, imagining a surreal picture of Dean and Sam on the bridge the day that it must have all started. Then his vision switched to that of Dean, alone with a serene look on his face, standing on top of the railing prepping to jump over into the angry river… churning violently then turning crimson with blood as Dean fell into it.

John swore that very minute that he would do everything he could to prevent his boys from having to make the decision to kill themselves – he wouldn't let them… because they would always have each other to look after one another.

"It was a noble one," Evans replied quietly.

"Suicide is never noble…"

"That boy made a decision to die on his own terms," Evans defended.

"Not many of us are afforded that luxury," John said.

"Then may we pray that we do, and our deaths go to help the ones we love. You'd die for your sons wouldn't you?"

"I would rather live for my sons."

"But in the moment when one of them is facing death you would not second guess what you would have to do, would you?"

Sam looked up at his father with soulful eyes; he had been patiently listening to what he could comprehend of the two older men's conversation. John blinked at him the smiled easily, giving Sam another squeeze on his shoulders.

John finished by saying, "Well… let's not talk about that yet, not in front of Sammy."

Evans remained impassive and silent.

"Can I write the boy's name on the paper, so I know for research?"

Evans sighed again, and then stuffed his hands in his pocket. "My brother's name was Nautilus Evans, after the sea ship in Twenty-thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Verne. I'm named after Herman Melville, the author who wrote Moby Dick. It ran in the family I suppose, but my brother was special, he didn't deserve the lot that fate gave him."

John didn't say anything, except he fully grasped why the man was so helpful to the Winchester family, and probably why subconsciously John reluctantly believed Evans when he first mentioned the shadow – it hit as close to home for Evans as it did for his youngest son. "Okay, thanks," John said without skipping a beat, shifting Sam onto his other leg.

Evans quietly stalked back to his office and sat heavily in the chair at his desk.

As the night progressed the wind picked up outside and the snow became heavier and heavier. Evans looked concerned towards John and got up once more to check on him. Sam had long since fallen asleep on the other bed, while John had started to doze off, his face buried in Evans records at Dean's feet. "You're no use to your boys if you're falling asleep reading John. Get some rest, your son will be fine until morning," Evans said kindly shaking John's shoulder.

The father reluctantly nodded and returned to the couch he was at earlier. In the morning… he thought about Sammy… and Dean… and how James Darrow saw his mother die. _Mary…_ he thought as he drifted off into his own uneasy sleep.

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay, been busy with the job, and I'll be working at Jesus camp next week, so I hope ya'll like this chapter. It'll pick up! I promise!

New tag line for the fic

Balancing the hunt and taking care of Sam, John begins to question his own eyes and sanity when he delves deeper into the seven-year mystery of the town and he finds there may be more to the shadow than meets the eye.

**Leave a comment! I'll love you forever and if a ghost tries to kill you I'll throw rock salt at it.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

While his outside calmed itself, John remained on the inside like a caged tiger, ready to pounce on anything that presented itself as a threat or opportunity – but he couldn't, because he was trapped, and didn't know where to start. _Mary I need help, I don't know where to look first…_

The afternoon sun was bright, and Evans was still at the clinic, in the other room speaking with a nurse that had come in. John had spent the whole morning pouring over Evans's records with a fine toothcomb, hoping to spot any clues or inconsistencies that might point him in the right direction.

Sam hopped off his bed and padded over to Dean's side. "Why isn't Dean awake yet Dad?"

"I'm going to figure that out," John replied distractedly. He couldn't work here… he'd have these records memorized in no time and if he stared at it too long he was afraid he'd miss something by virtue of the information becoming stale.

"John?" Evans asked hesitantly from his office, sensing the widower's anxiety, "I don't know how you should proceed, however if you would like I can drive you to the Banker house, Missus Banker still lives there and may have information that you want."

John pondered the offer, then replied, "No… I can't leave the boys here alone. Just draw me a map or something and I'll go by myself. If, of course, you don't mind watching Sammy for me."

"I'd be happy to," Evans smiled.

John stood up, his large frame towering over his youngest and Dean lying on the bed fragile and still. John messed with Sam's hair. "Watch Dean," he told Sam.

Evans passed him a note with the map of the town on it. On the map, Evans highlighted both the home and the library in the main part of town, "Go there, if there's a spirit that's involved or another being you will find information on it there. We in town keep extensive records of our history."

"I'll be back in time for dinner Sammy," John reassured his son, "Watch out for your brother."

Sam nodded meekly.

- - -

The Banker family still lived in the same house from 1983, when John drove into the driveway and compared it with the photograph from the file he didn't find any differences except a tree with a tarnished plaque on it. Inspecting it, he saw that it read "For David, Beloved son and brother, 1973-1983."

Ringing the doorbell, John smiled at an older woman in pajamas and a robe.

"Oh, hello. May I help you?" she greeted, with rubbing her hands with a dishtowel.

"Hi," John returned. He flashed a fake badge and said, "My name is Gordon Freeman and I'm with the Center for Disease Control. Are you Marianne Banker?"

"Well, Marianne Raines now, but yes I am," she replied with a slight drawl, "Is something wrong?"

"Well, some see it that way. Would it be alright if I asked you a couple of questions about your late son David?" John held his emotions check, trying to seem as professional as he could considering the circumstances.

A twinge of pain flashed across the woman's face and she held the door open for John, "Come on in, I was just baking for my daughter's sweet sixteen. She's at her father's so I knew I could get it done over the weekend."

"I understand," John smiled, stepping into the modest living room. On the walls there were several faded pictures, most of which held a brunette girl in them growing up, fewer of a bright-eyed little boy.

"You said you're with disease control? Is this about how my David died?"

John nodded, "I'm terribly sorry about your son Missus Raines, but I have a few questions pertaining to David's illness."

The woman motioned for John to take a seat on the couch, which he did, and she walked into the kitchen. "Can I get you something to drink Mister Freeman?" She called from the other room.

"Why no thank you, this will only take a couple minutes of your time."

She returned with two glasses and a pitcher of coffee. "Just in case," she shrugged.

He smiled in return and she sat in the loveseat. She looked at her coffee for a few moments before hesitantly asking, "Is someone else sick?"

John looked surprised at her, and then answered truthfully, "Yes, another boy has symptoms similar to your son's. And he isn't the first; there have been other cases like it in previous years so we're reinvestigating what happened so we can prevent it from happening again."

"Oh that poor family…" she remarked introspectively.

The oldest Winchester grimaced for a second then returned to the task at hand. "Why did you think your son was sick in the beginning?"

"He was such an active boy, always playing outside in the park near the woods with his sister. I think his father and I made that mistake of letting him play in the snow like that. At first, David… he… umm… he just seemed unfocused, and just so obstinate about him being sick." She laughed nervously, "David would snap at his sister and fall asleep at all hours of the day."

"Did David exhibit any signs of paralysis or numbness in his hands and feet?"

Mariana sank back into her couch, puckering her lips as she thought. "He…" she tentatively began, "There was only one time that I noticed it – my ex-husband was much better at picking up things that were wrong with the kids you see – but one time the two of them had been helping their father with the taking down the Christmas lights. Davy was in charge of holding the ladder in case his father lost his balance, he did, Davy claimed it was because his hands stopped working."

She bit her lip and trembled at the memory, "God damn it, I blamed my ex breaking his arm on Davy… if only I knew that Davy was sick I wouldn't have…" She wiped her eyes with a fist and continued, "Not long after that we took him to go see Doctor Evans down at the clinic. The doctor seemed rather worried about my son so we had him transferred to a larger hospital."

"Is that when he fell into the coma?" John asked gently.

She nodded, "That's when Davy fell into the coma."

"May I ask something? It may be hard, and I'd understand if you don't want to answer it, but it would help the investigation," John prefaced. "Can you tell me how your son finally died?"

The woman looked down, "David one day just broke, like one of Molly's toys. He seemed fine one moment then he just stopped."

"His heart? Breathing?"

"Everything," she choked, "All the monitors watching him showed that he simply stopped all at once. It's like he blinked out of existence in a manner of a second."

"I'm sorry to have brought this up Missus Raines," John said, leaning over to squeeze the woman's shoulder. "I'm sorry about your son, but you're helping the fight for another little boy's life."

She looked at John bleary-eyed, "What's the boy's name so I can pray for him?"

John paused, thinking about the offer that the woman was making, how long had it been since he prayed to God? "Jonathan Dean," John answered quietly, almost to the point of whispering reverently. Mary wanted their son to be named after him, but it was always embarassing for John to refer to his son by his own name. After Mary's death? John felt there was no way that he deserved such recognition.

"I hope you can save him, I know how hard this is on parents," she said, folding her hands.

"I'm trying." He stood up and walked over to the front doorway, "Thank you for your time Ma'am. I'm sorry about your son." He stepped out into the fading sunlight and gazed mournfully at the setting sun.

He thought about interviewing other families, but based on what he gathered from Marianne Raines he knew that little could be collected to help his situation. No, looking at previous cases only wasted time and ended the same way, he needed to move forward to save Dean.

So his next stop would be the library. There he would research the first couple cases more, try to find a pattern or something, a similar death… something to help.

He sighed; this was so different from his regular cases. John Winchester worked so hard to keep this life from Dean and Sammy. He was preparing them, protecting them, and teaching them to protect themselves. He hadn't even told Sammy about how Mary died, he would tell him when he was older. Dean knew because Dean was intuitive at picking things up, plus he was four when it happened – he remembered. Hell, when John had left the boys with at the Harvelle roadhouse, Dean had walked out just in time to see his father blast a shape shifter full of silver when the boy was only _five._

When it came to the day that John formally introduced Sam to the life that they were unwittingly leading, it would be Dean who would be holding Sam's hand. Dean would explain it – because Sam trusted Dean unconditionally and would do anything his brother said. If Dean said so, it must be true. That is… if John's little card house of lies didn't come crashing down first, John needed Dean to be there for Sam – and that meant getting Dean back first.

**Author's Note:** Gah... such a short chapter, mostly because the next one is so long. Jesus camp was fun, and started a new job today. Keep getting distracted with… ermm… other fics, like my Dresden one, and my Runaway AU.

Leave a COMMENT. 3 Oh, and yes, points to the person who gets were I got John's alias from.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The first case was bothering him, the seven-year-old who died… he just didn't fit at all. All of the patterns that were laced in the other incidents just didn't apply to him. In fact, the only thing that coincided with the others was his approximate age and manner of death. He wanted to write him off as a coincidence, but John's gut instinct told him that if he were going to get to the bottom of it than James Darrow was the key, for one reason or another.

He got in the driver's seat of the Impala and turned on the engine. As he pulled onto the main street he looked warily at the town that become the Winchester home for the past couple of months. John noticed things he had been too busy to see before. It could have just been that he now looked at the city with suspicion, every facet of the town leaked with fault to the father – how could he have not seen this coming? He picked this town for its safety, and look how that had turned out.

There was the old post office, the Darrow Mansion up the hill, the schoolhouse, the diner… as if on cue John's stomach rumbled, he hadn't eaten in a while, and the drive from the Clinic to the Banker house was long and winding. Besides, he was in for a long night at the library; it wouldn't hurt to stop for a sandwich and soup. He really wanted a _beer_, but that was out of the question until he could save his oldest.

After pulling into the parking lot he shut off the engine and got out of the Impala. John locked the door and curled his jacket around his body tighter. The cold of the Tennessee air huddled around him making him wonder why people even dwelled in this type of weather at all. Too many dark nights, too many empty streets, too many shovels of snow, too many people getting sick…

But John got his answer as he stepped into the small, but comfortable, diner. Privately owned, the diner served as a gathering place for the residents with good food and good company and from a hunter's perspective it served as a goldmine of information, more so than any library.

John Winchester went there often.

He took his usual spot at the bar, close enough to people to hear their conversation and yet far enough away to show that he didn't want to be annoyed. The other patrons recognized his stiff demeanor and gave him his space that evening, the only person who dared come close was the waitress.

John was a tall man, and he reckoned that his sons would turn out the same way, as his own father was before him, but the regular waitress at the diner was a solid foot shorter than John was and her curly strawberry blonde hair and faint freckles made her look childish. But what she lacked height she made up for in girth – she was just over eight months pregnant. Mattie Holmes was the wife to Dean's other doctor, and she had watched the boys and helped out John when he first moved there. Fiercely proud and wildly hormonal Mattie seemed to click with the small Winchester family almost instantly. John hoped she would be all right in the end – looking at the Winchester track record of family friends.

"What's got your panties in a bunch John?" She asked brightly, and then she frowned and continued, "Everything okay with you?"

"Just a steak hoagie and a glass of water please Matt," John replied gruffly.

"John if I have to force you to tell me why you're here rather than the clinic looking like you're carrying the weight of the world by beating you with a shoe I _will_. Anyone walking into the diner on my watch makes me responsible for them, I can't have you walking out of here no better than you were before."

"I'll feel better with my food!" John snapped at her.

Mattie blushed fiercely and defensively took a step back from him. By now all the patrons were listening and watching the conversation. "Yes sir Mister Wallace. Right away," Mattie tried to hold back the hurt in her voice, but failed and she walked away like a hurt puppy with her tail between her legs.

John ran his hand through his hair anxiously. That hadn't been necessary, and he felt guilty over yelling at her like that, but then again, he didn't ask for the charity of the rest of the town – the town was at fault in this manner – he didn't want their false encouragement and friendly sympathetic smiles.

As he brooded over the countertop he found himself ripping the tiny cocktail napkin to tiny bits to keep himself calm. Coming into the diner had been a bad idea, he couldn't interview townspeople worked up in this manner, nothing would come of it and he'd probably end up alienating the people like he did Matt.

Silently the strawberry blonde placed a tall glass of iced water in front of John and slid the plate holding his steak sandwich underneath his nose.

John gave her a crooked smile, "No fries?"

She glared at him in return, "Not until you stop being a moody son of a bitch."

The cook, a tall red-head, ducked down to look at the woman from the kitchen and said jokingly, "Watch your language Missy, the baby can hear you."

Mattie ignored him and continued to stare at John. "You having trouble with the shop?" She probed. She held her hands on her hips as John started to take small bites of his sandwich.

John worked part-time at the town's garage to earn some legitimate money on the side, partly because if he wanted to live a particular area for too long credit card scams would eventually catch up with the small Winchester family. John didn't mind the work, it filled his time in between hunts and he got to take Dean with him to learn how to maintain the car well.

"How are the boys doing?" Mattie asked, even more quietly than before. She slid her hand up protectively over her swelling belly. There were many children in the town, and when one was in danger the whole town felt it. John was a part of that town, only for a little while, granted, but nonetheless, he lived in the town, his boys went to school there, he worked alongside natives, and ate at the diner with the best of them. She leaned in, "Erin told me that you brought Dean into the clinic. I'm praying for him. Know that Johnny. Mel is one of the best pediatricians in this area, and him and Erin are gonna work night and day to make your baby better."

"The boys will be fine… are fine…" he corrected.

Mattie nodded and smiled slightly, "They're good kids John, they're lucky to have you for their father. It's such a shame that their mother passed away. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if Erin died and I was left alone with the baby."

"How long until he's due?" John asked, he wasn't really curious, but he figured it was the appropriate question for the young woman.

"Little less than three weeks, the twentieth. Well, that's what Melville said at least," she answered.

John's eyes lifted up and his dark eyebrows bristled with irritation… the twentieth again. For a small moment John wished that the twentieth of March never came and Mattie's baby was never born Dean wouldn't die and time would just stop.

John stared at his sandwich for a couple of minutes that had felt like an eternity.

The library could wait a day…

John had rushed this – he was so eager to find the hunt, but the hunt could wait a night. For now, he would stop time, and be a father.

He laid down a twenty on the counter and gulped down the remainder of his water. "Can I get another two sandwiches and wrap this one to go?" John asked Mattie, who still stood nearby him drying the clear juice glasses.

"Sure thing John," she smiled.

Armed with the plastic bag of three steak sandwiches, John sat heavily in the driver seat of the Impala and placed the bag in the passenger seat. Not knowing what else to do, at least for a moment, he began once more looking through Evans's files, searching for something him might have missed. They were beginning to smudge with the oil from John's fingers, and if he read through them any more he'd have them memorized. The lines before him began to blur together and John wondered if he should even attempt to drive back to the clinic being as tired as he was.

He heard a small voice beside him ask, "What's for dinner tonight Dad?"

"I brought a sandwich for your brother and Doctor Evans," he answered casually.

"They smell good."

John looked over at Dean, who was playing absently with the bag containing the sandwiches looking mildly bored. But it wasn't _his_ Dean, this one's freckles seemed less pronounced and his normal blonde hair seemed a little bit grayer. "Dean?"

The boy didn't look up at John.

"You're not _dead_ are you Dean?"

Dean's head turned up a tad, to look out the front windshield but didn't turn to look at his father. "No," he replied, "I don't think so."

Failing to come up with any sort of ideal response John just nodded at the shadow of his son and nodded, "Good to hear."

"Dad?" Dean said finally looking at John, and despite the colors of most of his son's countenance being duller at the edges, his hazel eyes shone brilliantly even in the last vestiges of daylight just as the sun finally sunk beneath the surrounding mountains. "I think it'll snow again tonight, don't ya think so Dad?"

John stared at his son, completely unsure of what to say. Then he blinked, for only a moment, and the image of Dean sitting in the car with him vanished into the twilight, leaving John to ponder over what had occurred.

The father abruptly pushed himself off of the steering wheel and shook his head, a physical attempt to clear his head. The papers that he had been looking at had scattered around the Impala as John realized he had fallen asleep after he had gotten into the car. Checking his watch he must have been dozing off for about an hour He frowned, Sam and Evans were probably wondering when he would be getting back. He must not have been getting enough sleep, dreaming about Dean like that - John wondered if his son was trying to tell him something about the case.

He made up his mind and went back into the diner where Mattie greeted him with a surprised look on her face. "Back so soon John? Is there something wrong with the sandwiches? I can make you another if you fancy that," she said, always eager to make sure her customers were full and happy.

"Nah, I was just thinking. Could you tell me when the library opens up tomorrow morning?" John asked, running his fingers through his dark curly hair.

"Well umm…" Mattie furrowed her brow and crossed her arms across her chest, "It won't be, seeing as how it's not open on Saturdays. But it's open on Sundays. Are you looking for something in particular Johnny?"

"Oh, Sammy, hah," John faked a chuckle, "Smart kid. We move a lot and he decided yesterday to keep a report on the towns we've lived in… kinda got interested in the Darrow family. I hear they pretty much built this town, is that so?"

Another patron, one John recognized as the high school football coach straightened up on his stool, "If little Sammy wants to look at the main family he wants to look at the Bells. The Darrows may have been a founding family but they certainly aren't the ones you want to look at for a good yarn. All the Bell family died or disappeared within a few months of each other. Mighty interesting if you ask me, I think the son killed him."

It perked John's interest, "What makes you think that?"

"Old wives tale, some say they wife or niece did it, I personally think it was the son. Bought him a hefty estate, more than any of us hope to ever have. Fat load it did for the boy though, he disappeared not to long after that himself," the man shrugged.

"Except for Miss Mattie here!" A woman laughed, "Little Missus Matilda _Darrow_ Holmes."

Mattie ignored the woman to turn and laugh at Bill, "Now what are you doing throwing about wives' tales like that Bill? Got nothing better to do with your time since the season's over and through for another year?"

"Nonsense!" Coach Bill defended, "Spring training starting up soon. Say Johnny? I can't wait to have your boy Dean on my team in high school." The old coach said grinning, "He'd be a mean quarterback, from what I've seen when he plays with your younger boy… woo, makes me smile just thinking about it."

"Dean doesn't do sports," John said uncomfortably, keenly reminded of a fierce argument he had a little over two weeks ago with Sam.

A patron on the far end of the diner chimed in, "I've seen him run a mile a minute! Boy oh boy, that kid's got some legs on him. Bill you should have him as receiver if anything."

John rolled his eyes, and looked to the young mother-to-be for assistance. Mattie shrugged. "Your boys," she said, her eyes twinkling, "If you don't brag about them then somebody will. Heaven help you Johnny, you don't speak much about your kids and you've got a lot to be thankful for. Show them off once in a while, they've got a lot of potential."

"Thanks Matt," John sighed, "But my boys are fine keeping a square head on their shoulders."

"Johnny I know that, now go home. It's getting late. I think the library opens up at 11 or 12 on Sunday," Mattie smiled, "Opens up early on school days though, 8 or 9. It's a part of the school, so it's not like they'll turn them school kids away."

John nodded at the pregnant woman and returned to his car leaving the patrons to their gossip and sports. He secretly wished he could see Dean again, but seeing his son's spirit wasn't something he should have looked forward to. And he had a lot to think about before the library trip.

Back at the reservation, Evans greeted him somberly, and John was dismayed to see little Sammy sitting at the foot of Dean's bed, pretending to read. "Hey kiddo, brought you dinner," John told him, placing the sandwich next to him.

"Thanks Dad," Sam replied dourly, turning towards Dean.

John knelt in front of Sam, "You okay son?"

"When is Dean gonna wake up?" Sam asked looking up.

The father sighed looking tiredly at his youngest son, _ah sweetheart, Sam keeps asking about your boy. _John mussed with Sam's hair and walked over to Evans. He handed him the remaining sandwich and lowered his voice, "Couldn't really dig anything up today. Heading to the library at some point in the next few days."

"You'll find it John," Evans reassured.

**Author's Note:** Yay! I love this chapter. I mean, I have this thing where I always try to include a diner scene because I think that really captures a town – and of course, I have my waitress Mattie appearing once again, although in a new and exciting incarnation this time. (Yes, she shows up in some form or another in all my longer fics. She'll be in chapter 5 of Dresden. Chapter 2 of my jersey devil one. The list goes on… just a running joke with myself)

Also, I want to make shout outs to a few of my reviewers. **CMS Cipriano**: YAY! You got the Half Life thing! Lol, JDM would make such a fantastic Gordon Freeman. **HappyChaos913**: Your review meant so much to me, (seriously… I printed it out and put it on the wall of my new cubicle) you noticed and mentioned all the things I'm trying to accomplish with the fic. Especially regarding its focus on _John _and the _hunt._

It made me think about how few fictions there are that focus exclusively on John and the boys being side characters. I mean, yeah, Dean's the one in danger (for now mwahaha) but _he's_ in the background whereas John and what John's going through is the frontrunner. I think that's why I like the comics so much – because they're not about the boys, we have that enough with fanfics and the show – the comic is about _John_ and the conflict he faces as he balances hunting and raising his children. Seriously ya'll, if you haven't picked up a copy of the comics (especially the new ones Rising Son) you're missing out on some amazing Supernatural goodness. Go run to Newbury Comics like… right now…

Enough of me and my commentary about John… I've gone _way_ over my AN limit (lies) I'm sorry… none of my friends like Supernatural so I don't get to discuss this and I think about it… a lot… I suppose that's good for ya'll because it means that I write fanfiction.

**Leave a comment! **


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

John was never a religious person. That had been his wife's affair. Even throughout his tour of Vietnam, John never truly looked to the heavens and believed. There were only a few times in his life he really felt that there was a greater being on his side directing this goddamn play.

When on Elcon Ridge so many years ago… He had just told her he was joining the marines and how she told him he'd wait for him to return.

When they shared "I Do"s…

A year later when a doctor came up to him and Mary with a bundle of cloth. He placed the bundle in Mary's arms and she lit up like an angel. Smiling, she held the bundle so both he and Mary could him. Their beautiful perfect baby boy…

And then when Sam had been born… little Dean in John's arms as Mary was presented with her second child.

_She_ always prayed, went to church, even volunteered in the bell choir of their small Methodist church in Lawrence. Mary would give a small wave to all of her boys sitting the pews from the front of the church in her white sundress. John would wave back then check his watch to see if the family could get home in time for the football game. His oldest would tug on John's sport coat and ask in a hushed tone, "When do we get to go home?" All the while Sammy, in John's lap, would watch mesmerized by the swinging bells and the clear chimes.

No… John didn't pray to God. He didn't see the reason to. There was only pain and shadows, no heavenly hosts that ever flew in and saved the day. Of course, he had encouraged the boys to, because it's what Mary would've wanted, and Jim Murphy helped when John was unable to. Sam seemed to get it, and Dean played along for Sam's sake, although none of them attended church.

John didn't pray to God. John prayed to Mary.

Like he was right then. It was Sunday, March 5h… fifteen days until…

It was Monday afternoon, and John found himself in the library. He had little Sammy in tow, simply because he didn't want the small boy to spend the whole time waiting on his brother. So John gave the boy a few picture books, and he gathered up a bunch of the town's historical newspapers and settled in for a long afternoon.

_Mary… what am I going to do? _

"Dad…"

_I've never been so scared, and all I can do is work… but even that… I don't think it's enough to save your son. But I have to do it Mary, it's the only thing I can do._

"Daddy," Sam said again.

"What is it Sammy?" John sighed.

Sam pushed his picture book to the center of the table, "I told you, I'm getting another book. The ones you picked for me are for babies…" He jumped off of his chair, and padded over to John, looking over his shoulder at what John was reading. The father had been going over old newspapers, and with a twinge of sadness he saw the recognition in Sam's young eyes as he looked at the article John had been going over. "That boy's sick like Dean isn't he?" Sam whispered.

John wrapped his arm around Sam and gave him a lopsided hug, "Yeah, but I'm working on getting Dean better." Who was that more of a comfort to? Despite trying to treat it as a normal case, John found himself drowning in the same information over and over, getting nowhere closer to finding the damn thing.

Sam nodded and slipped out of John's embrace, "I'm looking for a new book."

The widower returned to his own research, but was fruitless in finding anything to help his son. At least nothing he had already come up with. He went back through the file, his finger stopping over the name of the first victim once more. He was the key, he had to be. The only one that didn't fit…

"Dad? Can we go back now?" Sam asked quietly.

John grunted a low, "No, still working here champ."

"That's not even stuff from here," Sam whined softly, "I wanna go back to Dean…"

The father smiled grimly to Sam, "He wouldn't want you stuffed up in that clinic Sam. And besides, don't you have… some… homework or something for school?"

Sam frowned in a pout that was becoming all too common for the youngest Winchester, "I'm six Dad. In _first_ grade. I don't have homework."

_Of course, _John thought shaking his head, _because I remember exactly what it was like in first grade_. "Pick one of those fantastic illustrated classics you like," John sighed, attempting to placate the young boy. John was trying, he really was, but Sam was just making it so hard. Dean he understood, because the two shared the bond of knowing the truth - them against the world. His relationship with Sam was an entirely different matter. Maybe he was trying too hard to protect Sam.

Maybe if he told Sam the truth… Looking downwards, John's eyes darkened as Sam turned away from him, disappearing into the maze of shelves.

John had thought a lot about the night his wife was taken from him, and the more he did the less and less he believed his wife was the target. The voice in the back of John's head tugged at his deepest fears. This… crusade wouldn't be over when he found and killed the thing that took away his wife. It was after his son. It was after Sam.

He slumped onto the large wooden table, letting his fingers slip through his hair. _What am I doing here Mary? How far do I have to run to protect them?_ John was once more torn with his duties as a father, part of him wanted to run – as far and as fast as he could – and the other part wanted his boys to have that stability and a _home._

He didn't know how long he stayed like that, but he bit his lip to stay awake. Over the past few days he'd been seeing things… nightmares… waking dreams… initially he thought it was just the stress stemming from Dean falling ill. But over, and over, and over… John's world was crumbling all around him and now he also had to worry about his own _sanity._ Dean was following him, just out of sight and just out of reach - even here in the library, when he had been browsing through the children's section for Sam he thought he saw Dean pass by another aisle. It wasn't just limited to Dean though, the other boys… even ones he didn't have pictures of.

John had no reason to be seeing these boys yet he was, haunting his steps and stalking his nightmares.

Unfortunately, if was going to be harder from this point on, the moment he walked into the school to drop Sammy off for class. John assumed that the younger doctor, Holmes, had called the school to inform them that Dean wouldn't be attending for the next couple days. Gossip spread like wildfire in the small town and already the secretaries, Sam's teacher, the principal, the librarians, all the "helpful" little old porch sitters looked upon the Winchester family with sympathy in their eyes. John _hated_ it.

Sam returned and sighed loudly, a childish attempt to get his father's attention. When the father didn't respond Sam did it again, slightly louder.

"What do you want Sam?" John asked gruffly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I want to go home. I've been at school all day, I want to know how Dean is doing."

John drew a few calming breaths before replying, "Sam we've already been over this…"

Sam huffed and said sourly, "It's not like you care about us anyway…"

"What was that?" John asked sharply.

The young boy clamped his mouth shut and scowled at John, his cheeks turning red and eyebrows furrowed in boyish anger.

John matched his youngest by frowning deeply, "What did you mean by that Samuel Jeremy Winchester?"

"You're never home," Sam hissed venomously, careful not to raise his voice and drawing the attention of the librarians, "Even after Dean became sick you've been _gone._ Don't you even think about us?"

The father's eyes flashed in anger, "You know I care about you and your brother."

Sam stood up, fingers clutching at the book he'd found, "Then why are we here Dad!?"

"I'm not having this discussion with you," John said curtly. The both read in heated silence for another half hour, Sam simmering and John growing increasingly frustrated with the stale clues and antagonism rolling off Sam.When he finally reached the end of his patience, John began packing up the papers into the file folder, silently as he let Sam stew. "Pack up your stuff Sam," John ordered.

The younger Winchester sullenly threw his things haphazardly into his backpack and shrugged it onto one shoulder. "I need to check this book out," he mumbled.

"Don't take that long," John said tersely, not giving Sam an inch of room to protest otherwise. He didn't need to be reminded by his son that he wasn't there all the time, John was acutely aware of his shortcomings as a parent. Placing his hand on Sam's back, he led the small boy to the front where he watched him check out the book and shove it in his pack. Sam hadn't looked up at him at all since their argument, and John could feel the antagonism emanating from his youngest. "Sam, we'll go back to Dean right after a small errand," he said, trying to sound as calm as he possibly could.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, not bothering to hide the hurt lining his voice.

John tensed, "Just going for a walk, clear our heads a little bit." His son remained quiet so John continued, "You remember where you and your brother went on that walk? That bridge you said Dean slipped off of?" John didn't wait for Sam to reply, he probably wouldn't have anyway, but instead led Sam to the backseat of the Impala and took his place behind the wheel. The widower adjusted the rearview mirror to watch his son.

Sam was instantly absorbed in his book and only looked up when John pulled into the parking lot of their now rather _empty_ apartment. Thankfully, most of Sam's anger had cooled by the time they reached the apartment and John was able to get Sam to open up a little bit by the time they were halfway down the trail.

However, halfway along the trail he clamed up again in a hurry. John was lost in his own mind. Sam was hurrying forward with his brother in tow. "Boys!" He called out warningly, studying the ice that had collected on the floor.

Sam turned around and looked blankly at John, tilting his head, he whispered a quiet, "Dad?"

John blinked at Sam. _What the…_ he thought to himself. John had somehow wound up sitting up against the railing of the old wooden bridge. Sam was practically sitting on John's lap and had a worried look on his face. Getting over his momentary concern for his father and frowned. John could only imagine what was going through the young boy's head but John was sure it wasn't glowing affection for John.

The father pushed Sam off of him and held out his hand. "Help your old man out will you?" He asked nonchalantly.

Sam pulled up on John's arm with his whole weight and reprimanded John dourly, "You're gonna get sick just like Dean…"

John sighed and looked over the edge of the bridge, the water calm… at least it was today. But John jumped back, as a face shimmered in the water below and lupine eyes seemed to glow for a moment at him before disappearing under the bridge.

The father grabbed his son's hand and said anxiously, "Come on Sammy. Time to go…"

**Author's Note: **There are a lot of things I like about this chapter. A lot of things I don't too but laying those aside, there are still a lot of things I like. Oh, and I gave Sam the middle name of Jeremy because A) I love that name and B) Sticking with the Js. (JDM, Jensen, Jared… John Winchester, Jonathan Dean…)

**Leave a REVIEW, tell me what you think so far.**Oh, btw, I _kinda_ need a beta… seeing as how I've been doing all of my own editing. Just… leave me a pm or whatever.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

John practically pulled Sam along the path back to the Impala; he had half the mind to pick the small boy up and carry him, but he didn't want to scare Sam any more than he had to. When they reached the apartment, John fumbled with his keys, entered the room, and had Sam pack another bag of clothes to bring with him to the clinic while John prepared his own bag. Sure, it had some clothes in it, but it also had shotgun ammunition, rock salt shells, holy water, and a book of exorcisms that Jim Murphy had given him, among other things. He pulled out a heavy leather belt with a sheath and strapped it around his waist.

"Dad! I'm all set!" Sam called out from the boy's bedroom.

John grunted in response, and yelled out to Sam, "Stay in there until I'm done." He went over to his dresser and opened the bottom drawer. It had a trick bottom and was the father's secret stash for a few of his more precious belongings, including his journal, Mary's engagement ring (she hadn't had it on when she died) and a pair of knives John had specially made.

One knife was slender and delicate compared to most of his other equipment. Made of silver, it had every seal and enchantment Jim Murphy and Bobby Singer could carve on the sucker - ideal for all your were-creature, shifter, and spell craft needs.

Likewise, the other knife carried a menagerie of engravings on it. However, the second was heavier and more robust, made of solid iron - perfectly suited for the hunt before him.

Lots things had a weakness for iron, especially Fay.

Fay, also known as fairies, were divided into two separate courts according to lore. The Seelie Court were the harmless beings, preferring playful tricks to outright harm. Members from the other group, the Unseelie Court, occasionally popped up too, and they had been known to have their fair share of destructive habits. Trapping people in fairy circles, kidnapping children, and causing havoc to passersby weren't unheard of for Unseelie members.

From what John had seen at the bridge, he was dealing with one of the most malevolent and powerful types. Water sprites had always been tricky little creatures; slippery to catch and even harder to kill, and many were heralds of the court. Like their cousins, pixies and nymphs, water sprites lived in woods and rivers. There were lots of different types - merfolk, sirens, melusine… but all were commonly classified as Nix or Nixies.

John had dealt with a few in the past, most "coming up to surface" with the trail of drowned victims they occasionally left in their wake. The hold she had on Dean though wasn't far off from most lore, attracting women and children and pulling them underwater. After all, Dean had fallen into the river but made his way out… maybe the thing was still trying to target him or poisoned him or something? It wasn't that much of a stretch to apply a variant of that to Dean and the other boys - most of these creatures had pagan origins and their tie to the equinox would be even more significant.

The widower picked the knife up, its weight lying heavily in his hands. _Most important hunt of my life Mary, not to diminish the importance of yours… but here I have a chance to save him, maybe in some small way make up for being unable to save you._

"Dad!" Sam yelled impatiently.

He buried it in the sheath at his side and shouldered his bag.

Evans wasn't in the clinic by the time John and Sam had returned. Instead John could see Erin Holmes through the slight door opening of the office. The young doctor looked up, noticed the pair and smiled. "Welcome back. I was wondering when you two would wander back in." He got up and closed the door of his office saying, "Wish I had something good to tell you, but the best I can say is that Dean hasn't gotten any worse. Everything's pretty much just holding steady where he's at."

John nodded in return. He had already known there would be no change so the news wasn't disappointing. It wouldn't be that way for long hopefully, now that he had a lead to follow. He grimaced: even though he held on to the prospect of saving Dean so tightly now he knew he was in for a difficult hunt, and there were no guarantees the nixe would even show when John went down there. He needed a way to convince her to show herself so he could…

Holmes looked at John oddly. "You feeling okay John?"

"Yeah I'm okay," John said, slightly taken back due to being pulled away from his train of thought. He shrugged casually, taking a step back from the doctor. He really didn't want to go into depth about his nightmares and what had happened on the bridge with the younger man. Holmes was a civilian and therefore didn't see the importance of John's hunt, nor the dark and frightening reality behind it.

"No you're not!" Sam protested from Dean's beside. He glared at John squarely before turning to Holmes. "He passed out on the bridge when we were out on a walk."

_Ah Mary, Sam's too smart for his own good_. John sighed. Sam didn't know that John was trying to help Dean in his own way. He just wants me here with them. It's not so much for the kid to ask me… but I can't just sit around here with twiddling my thumbs, Holmes thinking I have the plague or something. "I'm fine," John persisted.

"Really John? I'm worried about you because I haven't seen you here at the clinic with Dean at all today and the shop called saying that you weren't there either," Holmes said accusingly, unable to conceal a growing edge to his voice. "You really need to take a break from whatever it is you're doing to spend some time with your son."

"I've been trying to track down Dean's medical records from my brother," John lied easily, frowning warningly at Sam to remain silent.

"At least let me check you out," the young doctor said adamantly, beyond frustrated with John's stubbornness. Holmes had John sit on the empty bed next to his oldest son and began checking John's vitals. The doctor was uncomfortably silent, and his wearing patience with John was evident in his demeanor.

"Look Holmes, I'm fine," John insisted for what seemed the millionth time. "The past couple of nights are just catching up with me. The boys' records are hard to track down because we move a lot. I left them last time with my brother for safe-keeping but he's a hard man to reach nowadays…"

The young doctor looked at John crossly after checking the father's temperature, "No you're not fine Mister Wallace. If you were, then you wouldn't be passing out and running a fever. Honestly, when's the last time you got a full night's rest? I know you're worried about Dean but…"

John snorted, "I'm trying to help Dean…"

Holmes folded his arms, "Is that what this is about? Evans told me what he thought about what was going on with your son. Seriously John? You believe that nonsense that Evans is trying to pass off on us? John, I respect that man more than anyone else in the world, but when he gets going on that curse it's hard to believe a word coming out of his mouth. It sucks, yeah, but children get sick. Children die. And it's not due to urban legends or things that "go bump in the night" or whatever." Holmes stopped abruptly, his outburst out of character for him, and John assumed Holmes must have had the very same discussion before John he Sam had returned with the older doctor.

The father raised an eyebrow and asked calmly, "How much did Evans tell you?"

"He told me enough to know that it's absolute bonkers," Holmes sighed. "John, I'm going to give you some Tylenol for that fever and you're staying here for the night for observation. I wouldn't think that'd be an issue under normal circumstances but I insist that if you're going to be chasing ghosts you're at least going to get some sleep first. If whatever bug you have is the same as your son's it's important that you don't go anywhere."

John rolled his eyes and flopped back onto the cot, turning his head toward his youngest son who was engrossed with the book he had checked out of the school library earlier. Sam had

the book propped up against Dean's thigh which was horrifyingly still in John's eyes. "What are you reading Sammy?" he asked tiredly.

Sam looked up and scowled, apparently angry that John had tried to shrug off being sick. The small boy held up his book so John could read the bold red title. Moby Dick. _Just like Sam to pick a book I didn't read until high school. Right Mary?_

Holmes returned with a cup of water and the Tylenol for John. "This is hard, but you're only going to hurt yourself and Sammy if you continue down this road John," he said earnestly. " It might be easier to believe that some dark man in the desert is making your son sick, but it's not possible. Just… just have some faith in Evans and I." The doctor shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Get some rest… I've got some paperwork to do and I'll check in on you and Dean later."

After the doctor had retreated back to his office, John got up once more to drag a chair over to Dean. Taking a seat opposite of Sam, John took Dean's hand in both of his own. He held it tightly, studying his eldest son. He gently brushed some of Dean's hair on his forehead. _Need to give your boy a haircut_… John kissed Dean's hand and returned to simply holding it. _Mary, he just looks like he's sleeping, but he's so pale…_ John suddenly felt Sam watching him and his gaze slid towards his other boy.

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled quietly.

"For what Sam?"

"For saying that you didn't love us…"

"You didn't mean it anyway kiddo," John replied wearily, returning to watching Dean's chest slowly rise and fall rhythmically.

Sam bit his lip, his six-year-old countenance screwed into a contemplative frown. "Yeah……" he started slowly, "But sometimes it feels like you don't."

John felt like a ton of bricks hit his chest, Sam's words striking him straight through the heart. Finally, he hardened his expression, once more becoming John Winchester the Marine, John Winchester the hunter… John thought for a moment before saying carefully, " I both love about you boys more than anything. And I'd be damned if I let anything happen to either of you." The father stopped short, just shy of unloading on the boy. _I wonder how many times will I need to remind myself of that Mary, how many times are they going to be in danger before I finally give up?_ The boy looked at John sullenly, but didn't say anything. Finally, John said, "I'm working on it. Someday I'm not going to have to work as much as I do now, but until then you have to be patient with me Sam."

He gulped and continued, "Time for bed kiddo. Tomorrow after I pick you up from school I'm gonna drop you off here and I'm gonna try to get in contact with Uncle Bobby."

"You'll take it easy right Dad? Doctor Holmes said that you should…"

"I know what the doc said Sam," John quipped, a bit harsher than he intended. He added more gently, "Yeah Sam, I'll be careful."

**Author's Note: **Thank you to my lovely beta readers, Homeric and Mouse95 first and foremost, because they're awesome and patient with me.

Uhh… not much to say about this chapter… besides the cute Sammy scene that deals with the last chapter.

Hunt next chapter! Makes sarcastic OMGYAY face **Leave a review for a poor college student! **cries We need lovvve...


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_This is it Mary._

The father gulped, his hands were shaking with anticipation for the hunt before him. _Just get it done right,_ he reminded himself, _waste the thing, grab the boys and leave this town behind us. _John had been at the library most of the day, researching the river more in depth.

Apparently it had been host to an unusually high amount of accidents in the past century, not to mention the suicides off that damned bridge. It wasn't that unusual of a river, certainly not the largest in the county but it had a track record to rival some of the better-known rapids in the area. Most of the activity was centered around their part of the county, that being the closest the river got to civilization and meaning more people than there normally would be out in the Tennessee woods.

John chewed on his pen as he wrote all the information down in his journal, thinking about how to summon it. The thing had damn near told John it was there when he was with Sam, but he couldn't risk bringing Sam on the hunt. The bridge seemed to be the hot spot, but John hadn't thought much beyond showing up there and challenging the thing outright to show itself. That was dangerously stupid, of course, and probably one of the most reckless options, but there was little to do in way of trapping a water spirit in the limited time John had. So he'd have to just see what happened… _What could possibly go wrong Mary? _He thought to himself jokingly.

It hadn't taken him long to pick Sam up from the school and take him back to the clinic. Before he left Holmes had done his best to convince John to stay the night for observation, but shrugging the doctor off, John promised that he'd watch himself and would go straight back to the clinic if he thought something was wrong.

Leaving the Impala at the apartment, John double-checked his supplies as he hiked up the path towards the bridge. His one shot at this was to get the Nixe down quickly and stab her in the heart with his iron knife, all while not allowing her to escape back into the water. To do that, he had his iron knife and for kicks and giggles he also brought along his old M1911 Colt from his time in Vietnam loaded with iron rounds. The gun was probably useless, seeing as how water did awful things to firearms, but John didn't like to go into any hunt without one. Call it being prepared, call it paranoia, whatever, John just liked the added protection.

The bridge wasn't that far ahead, and John could see the river was especially swollen due to the rain and sleet the mountain had gotten the night before. Taking out his flashlight, John searched the waters for telltale signs of the Nixe. He frowned, and went to work finding the flood light on the bridge. He wasn't stupid… he knew his shortcomings and any added advantage John would take, and frankly, he liked the ability to see the thing he was hunting. He leaned over the side of the bridge and scowled. "Come on sunshine… I know you're there," he said challengingly. John checked his Colt and holstered it.

He went to the end of the bridge and examined the bank and the space underneath the wooden bridge. A head peaked up out of the water and slid back silently. A voice echoed in his head. _Hunter…_

The father tensed immediately… he recognized that voice, it was that of his late wife's. He glared at the spot where the Nixe had been before and carefully descended down the bank, knife in one hand and the other steadying his descent. John felt one of his boots slip and he scrambled to regain control on the steep bank. Slipping down the side of the muddy side, John dug his boots into the earth, dirtying his jeans and leather jacket.

With a splash he landed in the shallows of the river, water lapping up against his denim jeans. He brandished his knife in front of him, whispering, "Come on out…"

_"Why would I do that John?"_

His eyes flashed around the bank, but didn't see anything. "Let Dean go," John warned to the air. God he hated invisible creatures… he had to draw her out. "This bridge your home?!" He dared, "Release my son our I'll burn it to the ground!" Wind picked up and water whipped into a frenzy around him. He drew his Colt and shot the water in frustration.

_"Come on hunter, you're better than this…"_

"Stop sounding like Mary!" John barked.

Silence reigned, except the howl of the wind and the water rushing by. Seconds ticked by and John anxiously watched the water. Above him, the bridge floodlight flickered in and out before finally dying and leaving John in the darkness. It wasn't totally dark, moonlight peeked through the clouds, even so, John drew his flashlight once more.

_"Fine."_

Water erupted at John's feet and he was thrown on his back. He felt arms and hands grab a hold of his legs and pull him under the rushing water, knocking the air right out of him with the shock of the cold water. The hunter slashed with his knife at his attacker. Thrashing violently, John fought against the water until he felt the burn in his lungs from the lack of oxygen and his arm slammed down on the rocks with a sickening crack. Just when he was getting desperate the water around him seemed to collapse, leaving him shivering on the bank on his hands and knees.

John's breath hitched in his throat as a silver figure rose out of the water, bare torso glimmering in the dim light. Long hair matted down by ice and water clung to the Nixe's body, decorated with braided seaweed and lotus flowers. Lupine eyes blinked at John, although she didn't smile, or grin, or anything – no cruelty or playfulness graced her face. "_I know what you're thinking John. I didn't hurt your first born."_

"Yeah well, sure seems like you did bitch," John answered maliciously. He'd seen the records, how many deaths had been attributed to the bridge and the river. He scrambled to his feet, wincing as he did because his entire left arm had gone numb, and used the wall of the river for support, readying his knife in his right hand. He winced as she stared it him, backing into the riverbank. This wasn't good… John's face paled with a sad thought as the Nixe drew closer… Fay didn't lie, they _couldn't._

_"I did _not_ harm your son."_

John swallowed, feeling the effects freezing water seep through his clothes into his skin. "Make my son better," he demanded, voice firm even though the cold iron knife in his hand shook. Despite the voice of reason in the back of his mind, John _needed_ to blame someone for Dean's illness. He didn't want to be wrong… if he was wrong…

He _was_ wrong. The Nixe wasn't the one hurting Dean... she might not have been a golden ray of sunshine, but Fay couldn't lie, so she must have been telling the truth about Dean. _Damnit…_ he thought coldly.

She blinked again, tilting her head to the side. "_I did not harm your son. I am not the one responsible for his misfortune."_

"You've killed before."

_"True, but not your son."_

John smirked, masking his pain with the grin, "Like I'm gonna believe you."

_"I give you no reason to,"_ she pulled herself up from the water and John froze. Her serpentine, extremely naked wet body shimmered as she dragged herself from the waters edge and became a long silvery gown. "_After all,"_ she whispered into his mind seductively,_ "I've killed so many… I could take you back to my home, watch as you shudder and draw your last breath." _As she thought these things she drew closer to him, her features becoming less fragile and delicate and turning sharper and terrifying. "_I'd watch in delight as the light disappeared from your eyes, frozen in despair for Sam… for Mary… for little Johnny…"_

John slashed at her across her abdomen with the cold iron. She pulled back in shock, the iron causing spidery purple veins to lace her light blue skin near the wound_. _The Nixe hissed, barring sharpened fangs. "_Hunter I will rip your flesh from your bones and use your blood to color my waters…"_

"Not today bitch."

_"I _DIDN'T _touch your son…"_ she insisted.

He stepped forward brandishing the knife, cocking his head to the side, "You keep saying that and yet I still don't believe you. I once read somewhere that one type of insanity is when something is attempted over and over expecting a different result." John stepped closer, causing the Nixe to fall backwards into the water, transforming once more into a mermaid like creature – this time as a young girl reflecting the fear in her eyes, intently focused on John's knife.

_"Your son fell, by _accident,_ and I spared him from the river."_

"You _are_ the river," he corrected, not hiding the spite lining his voice.

She smirked, her eyes turning completely white, which seemed completely and utterly wrong coming from the body of what couldn't have been more than a ten-year-old. "_You think too highly of me." _

John barely had anytime to wipe the blood trickling down from his nose.

_"Your son John," _she elaborated, "_Even you must have heard the whispers. Sammy's special. You're his father John, and he will be ours. Your darling_,_ precious, little _angel_… you and Johnny have been keeping good care of him. Born of the soldier and the wife."_

"Don't talk about my boy like that…" John whispered dangerously.

_"Sammy was baptized by fire and blood – your _wife's_ blood. And by now you see how you already killed Johnny. Killed him just as much as Samuel killed Mary that night many years ago…" _she teased. She bit her lip in a wicked smile, so much so that dark crimson blood stood out against her dark blue lips and frosted skin. "_You killed any childhood that Dean may have had had you simply left Sammy there. You could've had Dean, John. You could have left behind Sam and Mary in your burning house and oh yes… you would have grieved, and you would never, ever, known love like that again…" _

Her body twisted and contorted and the river grew more chaotic and churned at John's feet. Where before he had been standing in knee-deep water, now all of it seemed to gather by the Nixe in an angry swirling torrent. She continued on her tirade viciously, "_But Dean would be _safe._ And the two of you would have eventually been happy. Life goes on without Mary John, you survived. Congratulations. But you wouldn't be able to survive losing Mary's son would you?"_

"SHUT UP!" John roared, blinded by hot white anger. He aimed to tear across her body but before the cold iron could touch her skin she burst into a million glittering droplets of water, falling on him, leaving him to feel as though he was baptized by the whole of the dark icy depths of the ocean. They splashed into the water and John saw as a dark figure floated up and was dragged along by the current.

"Dad!"

John turned, hearing Dean call him from down river. "Dean!?" He asked into the howling wind, the weather itself turning against John. "DEAN!" He called out again, frantic this time. He knew it was just a trick of his mind, but his parental instincts kicked in and he searched the river for his son. Spotting the green of Dean's favourite winter jacket, John rushed into the deepest part of the river to reach him.

The cold water was a shock, but John forgot all that, and all his bruises, aches, and pains. He needed to reach his son… "Dean!" But the boy wasn't anywhere to be seen, just water – nothing more. John's limbs stung from the icy coldness of the river and the current battered him against the larger rocks amongst the rapids as he tried to maintain a semi-standing position on the river floor. "DEAN! SAMMY!" John hollered, hoping anyone could hear him.

John ran his good hand through his hair anxiously, still searching for Dean with the dim silver light from the moon.

_"Mary, Mary, quite contrary…"_

The hunter paled, smartass Nixe.

_"How does your garden grow?"_

Water crashed against John's chest, and the stabs of pain from his arm as the current pulled on it were agonizing reminders that at least it was still attached. The water was nearly up to his shoulders at this part of the river, and would get deeper if he went any further. He needed to get out of the water…

_"With silver bells and cockleshells, pretty headstones lined up in a row. By now John you must have realized that you aren't like other hunters even. Your family has a wonderful talent for leaving behind so many people… so many corpses... first your wife… now your son? We must really like you Johnny… so much special treatment for a few good ol' boys from Kansas…"_

It was so unlike him, this fear… for one of the few times in his life John was afraid, for his sons, himself… His flashlight gone, his gun useless, armed with nothing but a knife in the dark, John had never felt as helpless as he did just then except for the night that the fire claimed his wife. "Let him go! HE'S MY SON!" John yelled. He wasn't sure if it was the water that soaked him from head to toe or his emotions finally manifesting themselves as tears, but his eyes burned and his vision was glossy. John gathered his breath and whispered, pleadingly, "Please don't take him too…" John didn't know who he was begging to, just whoever would listen. No… John didn't pray to God… but times like this he wished he could believe or have even an ounce of the faith that Mary had.

He stared back at the bridge, far away now after his attempt to rescue a hallucination, just in time to spot the Nixe's head pop up out of the water and slide back down near the bridge. Cold dread pervaded his bones as he stood in place.

_"I told you John. Your son is not mine to claim…" _the voice said coolly, "_B__elieve me or not… tick tock hunter."_

Gripping his knife in his good hand, he attempted to steady himself between a log and a large boulder. His eyes didn't leave the spot where she had been and a few anxious moments John began to spy ways to pull himself out of the river without damaging his now probably broken arm. He needed to get out of the water and onto the high ground, someplace where he wasn't at such a disadvantage… someplace…

He looked down as water retreated from his midsection, which he assumed was a _very_ bad sign. A few months previous, when the Winchester family lived in Florida along the Atlantic Ocean, he had been listening to Sam talk about what he learned in class. Sam was learning all sorts of things, about hurricanes and tornadoes, and how to spot a tidal wave. The key sign that there was going to be a large wave was when water would seem to vanish from the beaches – that's how to tell… _this_ was the big one. John watched as a wall gathered at the bridge and he had only a moment to draw a quick breath before the torrent of water crashed into him upon him and carried him to the rapids down river.

**Author's Note:** And the rating goes up to T haha... _and a evil cliffhanger mwahaha..._ Thanking Homeric once again for the beta work. I can't say how frustrating it is writing fight scenes, but how enjoyable they are once they're done. And raise you hand if you like the Nixe as much as I do! I love her… she's awesome.

And once again, doing my duty as a comic book nerd, I wanna hark on more fans reading the comic, because it gets better with each issue. Bobby was in issue 3! And some scary new details about Sam.

**Leave a review! **I'd love to hear your thoughts about the past couple chapters!


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

When John had been in Vietnam, the young marine was one of the many soldiers stationed in Saigon until the evacuation of the US embassies. During his time in the city, John met with little fire from the Viet Cong up until the last few weeks on the borders. One particularly warm day John and the rest of his company were on the outskirts doing a routine patrol when they had been ambushed. It was so loud that John thought he had gone deaf – he had never been in an urban skirmish before except in training and John and the rest of his men scrambled to regain control of the situation.

He had been a rifleman, and one of the best shots in his company – a trait that went on to help him while hunting a different kind of enemy. John got off a few rounds at snipers and the Cong attacking, enabling his company to take cover in one of the abandoned buildings and out of the direct line of fire.

John had been the last to move to cover, having set up across the street in order to get the best shots. In the corner of his eye, he saw Deacon at the door waving at him to haul ass to join the rest of them. John ducked behind the car he had been firing from, hurrying to pack his rifle away and time when he needed to move. John looked anxiously down the street, the scene quiet for a moment so he began to rush towards the rest of his company.

The marine didn't remember much after that, the car at his back exploded, sending John face forward into the dirt, John recalled blood dripping down his neck, dirt and blood caking his jacket, no doubt shards of hot twisted metal had made huge lacerations. John felt like he couldn't move – only lie there, utterly helpless as he watched his company abandon the shelter to attempt a rescue. Honestly John was surprised he wasn't dead, but every muscle in his body no longer hurt and it felt like he was watching the macabre situation from the comfort of a movie theatre. This was called shock… something John had seen in other soldiers but never experienced himself.

Deacon ended up being the one to reach him first, and the worry on his friend's face was evident. He shook John, jostling his fallen friend, and John winced as the pain in his back reignited. "Come on Kansas!" Deacon yelled, situating himself to be able to carry John back to the building.

When they retreated and got John to the hospital, Deacon tried to say something to John in order to distract the young man from the shrapnel being pulled out of his flesh. John blinked at Deacon, completely dazed, the explosion earlier knocking out any ability for the young marine to hear.

Later, John had the opportunity to read the medical report, mostly because he always had a slightly morbid curiosity. Turned out John had been a very lucky man – or unlucky if you looked at the fact he was in the situation at all. A five-inch shard of metal had embedded itself just shy of his spinal cord.

He supposed he was grateful for the few moments when he wasn't able to feel the splinter in his back, but the feeling was one John never wanted to experience ever again. He did, of course, although for different reasons – drinking himself into a stupor after Mary's death.

John could barely feel the pressure of hands against his face, but ice kept his eyes frozen shut so he couldn't see who was standing over him. Skin on his face felt rubbery and his limbs were utterly useless. He groaned, to at least let the person with him know he was awake.

"Johnny?" A feminine voice asked pleadingly. "Johnny, open your eyes."

He tried to, but ice and exhaustion prevented him from doing so.

"Damnit John…" John dimly felt as he was jostled and stripped of his wet jacket and shirt, replaced by a dry heavy cloth. "I'm going back to the car to call 911. Shit… just for a minute honey, I'll be right back," the voice reassured.

The hands left him, leaving cool, cutting air to brush against his face. John let loose another painful groan, using all his strength to try to sit up some. His back was against something, a rough stone or tree. He managed to crack one eye halfway open, his vision was blurred and the onslaught of colors made his head swim. It wasn't as though John hadn't been in this position before, a few hunts ago he woke up and found that he'd been out for about six hours. Than again, he'd been inside a haunted cabin, cut off from most of the elements. And he had been dry. That was a key part of his last brush with death.

His vision didn't get any better as the minutes ticked by, but a tingling sensation burned at his fingertips and his cheeks. He drew a rattled breath as he saw a reddish shape come into view. He couldn't form any words, but gave a shuddering groan. The hand returned to his face again, warm and comforting, alighting fresh round of stings where there was contact.

"Johnny? Johnny look at me. Come on honey, I know you can…"

"Mmhhh?" John mumbled. A wave of brown flashed before John and he felt the person wrap around his chest.

She shifted and placed a hand on his chest, the voice said apologetically, "Oh God… Johnny, Erin's on his way. Freakin'…" Mattie brushed a loose strawberry curl from her eyes. "Damnit… what the hell did you get yourself into?" The woman shivered, having given her winter coat to John, so she hovered close to the father. She tilted up John chin, steadying his jaw in her petite hands. "John? Look at me… John," her voice was firm and her eyes searched his face. "John," she repeated.

John managed to focus long enough, colors playing tricks on him. One moment everything was blurry and faded the next the bright red hair glowed.

"Drink this Johnny," she commanded, holding up a coffee mug. Mattie shrugged, "It's not the greatest coffee, but it's something warm." Matt tilted the mug and John struggled with the first few sips she tried to get him to drink. "That's it hun, doing good…"

His sight blurred again, and he felt the darkness encroaching at the edges of his vision. Mattie panicked, pitching forward to hold the side of the widowers face.

Minutes ticked pass and soon John was dimly aware of more dizzying movement but he didn't focus on anything in particular. Matt had been pulled away and John mind jostled to and fro with the busy buzzing of paramedics.

"Mattie? Matt! Are you okay? God, Matt you're freezing."

"I'm fine Erin…"

"You're going to ride with John then… … Troy! Reservation clinic, I'll follow behind you…"

"No! Erin, let them…"

"Sweetheart, you've been out here almost an hour. I want you to ride in the ambulance…"

Muddled sounds and colors played before John and after a few minutes he felt the small hand stroking his forehead once more, "It's okay Johnny… we got you." John's breath hitched, caught in his throat and the hand pulled away abruptly. A loud, unending ringing reverberated throughout the cabin of the ambulance.

John fumbled with his deadened hands, and weakly tried to grab a hold of Mattie's woolen jacket. _Something's wrong…_ his head pounded and for a moment he wasn't sure where the pain was just that there _was pain._

Ice-cold blood seemed to drag through his body, he could feel each tiny miniscule movement in his veins. Icy pains stabbed at his heart and John clenched his eyes in pain, a gravelly groan barely audible over the ringing. In a moment he was released, and floated in the blackness.

_"I've got you… look at me John… look at me and don't you dare look away."_

_He was back in Saigon, marveling at a glittering gold before his eyes. He couldn't feel anything, and he could barely hear Deacon or the rest of his company over the overbearing silence. The voice though, the crystal clear feminine voice that was passive yet commanding. She sounded far away, but at the same time it was as though she was whispering right into his ear._

_John slid his eyesight slightly, the sun temporarily blinding him but soon that passed and he could focus on the Mary's smiling face, lit from behind so her hair seemed to glow. "Mary?"_

_"Hey Johnny…"_

_"Am I…?"_

_"No, honey, you're fine. Everything's fine."_

_"Why are you…?"_

_"Angels are watching over you," she replied, although her voice was lined with slight sadness. She leaned in and kissed his forehead. Blinking through tears, she seemed to shimmer through the painful haze John was swimming in. "You promised me you'd come home, so I won't let you break that promise… even if…"_

_John gasped as Mary reached around and he felt a sharp pain in his back and he winced. She pulled her hand back, stained crimson with blood. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry John," she apologized, she looked fearfully over her shoulder before smiling at him, "When you come home we'll have everything we ever wanted…" She cupped his face and kissed him once more._ _"Won't that be nice?"_

John awoke with the kiss still on his lips and a warm weight curled up at his side. The single father looked around, and an unfamiliar ceiling overhead greeted him with sterile whiteness. He tilted his head to find the curly dark hair of his youngest beside him and a small fist resting on his chest. "Hey kiddo…" he said with difficulty.

Sam looked up and blinked at John, his face stained with tears and eyes that threatened to cry again. "Dad?" He asked tentatively.

Doctor Holmes stood at John's left side and for the first time John noticed the heavy cast on his arm. The young doctor frowned professionally and began, "It's good to see you awake Mister Wallace.

"Good to be awake Doc," John groaned, pushing himself up so he was against the headboard.

Holmes smiled at Sam and said, "Sammy, why don't you go join Miss Mattie in the waiting room, I'm sure she'll get you an orange juice or something while I talk to your father." Sam looked at John uncertainly before walking out slowly. Holmes closed the door behind the boy and he crossed his arms. "Mister Wallace, when my wife found you, you had been in the water and had severe hypothermia, not to mention bruised ribs and your forearm."

John imagined he looked like hell, but that didn't matter. "Am I in trouble doc?" He asked sarcastically.

The doctor frowned and said flatly, "You went into cardiac arrest on the way here."

"I had a heart attack?" John asked. _Holy crap, I…_

Holmes continued, but John wasn't paying attention to him. John's mortality slapped him in the face, and suddenly the father felt very small. It was very dangerous, and very real… and worse Sam knew his father had almost died. This time Dean wasn't there to comfort the boy saying that their father was indestructible. _What would've happened if I died? What would've happened to the boys Mary? If Sam lost Dean and their father?_ John shuddered at the thought.

"All I'm asking is you take it seriously John…" Holmes finished.

John suddenly felt very tired and Holmes retreated to the door, opening it so the youngest Winchester could rush in. He didn't say anything to Sam, _I wouldn't know where to start Mary…_ and the father gently drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

--

A few days later John was out of the bed, although burdened by the addition of the large cast on his arm. Sam had taken the time to scribble a few small drawings on it when John let him, and the father added a few drawing of his own. Both were hopelessly bad at art, but the moment had tempered Sam's growing apprehension around the older man.

"Sam? Where did my journal go? Have you seen it?" John asked his son, not looking up from scrounging around in his duffle. He pushed aside clothes, salt, extra ammo… but he couldn't find the leather bound book for the life of him. In the time that Dean had fallen in his coma, John hadn't thought once about writing an entry, but he felt the urge to now – hoping that the act of collecting and organizing his thoughts on paper would establish a new direction to go in. Make sense of it or something.

"No, I haven't seen it," Sam replied, stretching his arms wide after closing the book he had been reading before John interrupted him.

John wondered how it was that Sam had the patience to read those long books at such a young age – he certainly didn't pick it up from John. Dean, while a smart kid, didn't like to read aloud, stumbling over a lot of the more complicated words. The words were just words for Dean, whereas they took Sam into a whole other world. Part of the reason, John surmised, was that Dean didn't have to imagine faeries, nymphs, poltergeists, hellhounds, and demons because he knew they existed – but that world was still fantasy to Sam, and he was able to believe in them with innocent wonder. Not wondering if they were out to get him, or that they killed his mother, or that threatened to take away his older brother too.

The father mused over Sam's curiosity, his mind off his missing journal for a few minutes. What would Sam make of it if he found it and decided to read it? Would he believe half the stuff taped, stuffed, or written in its pages?

It had been awhile since John had taken a look at his boys since the start of this hunt, and it surprised him how mature Sam looked while sitting next to his brother. It was Dean that frightened him, when John first brought him in Dean was pale and clammy, but still had some pink on his cheeks and moved in his sleep. He didn't anymore. Evans had put a breathing tube in for Dean, and he seemed almost as pale as the sheets he rested in. The only tell tale sign that his son was still alive was the rhythmic pulses from the vitals monitor and the occasional flicker of the eyelids.

"Found it," John said, shaking the book in his hand towards Sam for emphasis before sitting back in his own seat.

"Dad?" Sam's small voice asked from Dean's bedside after about a half an hour.

John placed the pen in the crease of the book and closed his journal, "Yeah Sam?"

"What are you writing about?"

The father looked at the journal sadly and turned to raise his tired eyes at his youngest. "Nothing important," he shrugged, the lie rolling off his tongue easily from practice. He dropped it in his duffle bag which he left on a plastic chair by Dean's bed. "Come on Sam, time for some exercise, we've been cramped up in here for too long."

Sam gave his patented six-year-old huff but he followed John outside. It was a brisk day, but the sky was clear and the sun shined high above them. Sam glanced at his father impatiently, knowing what was coming and probably eager to just get it over with.

"Do your warm-ups and we'll take it from there Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes and grudgingly did the routine that he had set up for his boys. They weren't as intensive as Dean's, but Sam was getting to be that age were John would really turn up the heat. The boy hated it, to be sure, but John had to be strong in his decision to train his boys. What didn't kill you made you stronger, so they said… and while John wanted to protect his boys from the supernatural, John would be damn sure they would be able to protect themselves if the worst happened to him.

"Pushups!" John ordered shortly once Sam had finished stretching.

Watching Sam push himself through the exercise made John beam with pride for a moment. They'd be alright, if he didn't screw it up first… he needed Dean back in action… "Okay that's enough kiddo," he sighed after a few minutes, waving Sam to get up.

Sam groaned as he rolled over to push himself up off the ground. He brushed off flecks of dirt from his jeans and glared daggers at his father, his indignation at having to train evident on his face.

"Come on champ, time's wasting. Hustle over here…" John barked. He motioned for Sam to come closer to him and messed with the kid's hair when Sam came with arms distance. "You up for some laps?"

The boy rolled his eyes and sighed in exaggerated six-year-old fashion. But protest was not on his lips as he sullenly replied, "Yes sir…" Much to Sam's surprise as he leaned into a starting position he found John doing the same, albeit altered due to the rather conspicuous cast on his arm. Sam looked at John and smiled boyishly.

"From here to the road… count of three…" John whispered. "One…"

"Two…" Sam continued anxiously.

"Three!" They both shouted as they took off.

Sam easily out ran John, who was burnt out from the past couple days coupled with the lack of sleep. With Sam long gone, John slowed to a jog before leaning over to catch his breath. _Boy has some legs on him Mary…_

The youngest Winchester turned around to look back at John, a triumphant grin plastered on his face. "I beat you old man!" He shouted.

--

**Author's Note:** So my brother wants me to write a NRFTW tag but be a parody, like having Dean come back and eating sunshine and crapping rainbows. Using his magic hell powers to summon unicorns and like… pulling superpowers out of his ass. As for me, this chapter has been so hard to rewrite, because it's insanely difficult for me to write descriptively while still only remain in John's POV – a task made challenging by the fact half the time he's borderline unconscious and concussed.

Also as for the reason I've been noticeably absent is because… I mean… I've been watching Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog about 24/7 since it came out.

So the next chapter should be up rather quickly (it's a short little special treat I have planned) **Leave a review!**


	13. March 12th, 1990

_March 12, 1990_

_It's getting closer to the equinox and I'm at square one. It's so frustrating, I've been on this case for almost 3 weeks now but records are scarce. There's not much to look at in way of evidence, certainly none that I would've picked up on when I moved here and now that I'm actively looking there seems to be even less. There's an old saying that if you're looking for something the best thing to do is not look for it, which makes no sense but I think I do need a break. It's funny that it takes a broken arm and a _heart attack_ to finally bring me down for a bit. I'm worried though, because I'm just so helplessly lost with Dean's case I just don't know where to go in order to continue._

_When this is done and over with I'm going to drop the boys off with Jim and take care of the river nixe, right now I can't very well hunt her with a broken arm, much less kill her. What really gets me though is that she knew so much about my family, about Mary. It raises questions, a lot of questions, and fears. Lots of questions and no answers… which is an unfortunate trend in my life._

_I wish there was a way to rewind and start over these few months. Hell, I'd rewind my whole life if I could, do things differently. I'm beginning to wonder how much I could have prevented, how much of what my family has been through was my fault. If I had just looked into this town more I could have done something about this, or if I had taken that Christmas hunt when I had originally intended to rather than going to work that week. Sorting through the course of my own life I have to ask if I hadn't been there would something still have happened? If I had been in bed that night? Would I have been the one to check on Sam? Instances and hunts like this though are the ones that get me – it's a set pattern, one I should have seen… but even if I had I probably would've dove right in and hunted it regardless of the danger I was subjecting my boys to._

_Sam's been asking things, things I really want to keep from him. Hunting is something I don't want him to know about, and even if I did, this thing with Dean is definitely not the way I wanted to do so. It would be too much like how Dean found out, with Mary and again later with me killing that shifter. Sam though, there's only so much I can say to him, he doesn't know about Mary, he doesn't even know the fears I have about him. He's special, that's what the nixe had said. How much should I believe her? I know that there's no way she can lie, but they can certainly bend the truth. He could be special at… I don't know… underwater basket weaving for Christ's sake. I don't have the time for these things right now, no distractions in Dean's hunt. I need to take a step back, look at things with fresh eyes, and go from there._

_The more I think about it, the more I think there has to be a poison of some type or a witch. No creature that I know of can get their claws in like this and kill on such a specific date. Poison could explain Dean's early symptoms, but a sort of supernatural trip wire would be the best fit that I can think of. Unfortunately that means I have to go back to the river, where my last date didn't go as well as I planned. A trip wire would mean I'll have to look for hex bag or something, but if Evans was right and this thing originates in the forest it could be anywhere, and I'm running out of time for anywhere. Not only that, but a spell of this nature requires some serious mojo, and to keep it running for decades like this… I'm in over my head if this is a warlock. I hope to find something in the next few days, or else I may start to get desperate and just torch the whole forest, maybe even all the cemeteries in the area just to be safe. Which wouldn't be that bad of an idea now that I think of it._

_Sam's getting antsy; it's as if he knows something's up with me and Dean. I hope that he's not picking up on my urgency, because I don't need him worrying like that. It's bad enough for him that Dean's sick, and that I'm running off finding new and creative ways to land myself in a hospital bed. It'd be worse if he knew Dean could die if I don't figure this out. It's hard to say this but at least I have the boys, losing Mary was bad, but it was sudden, unexpected… this thing taking my son from me is worse, drawing it out and threatening to tear apart my home, my children. I could always run, take Dean and Sam away from here and hope for the best. But when has the best ever happened for us? I'm a walking example of Murphy's Law… I'm at the point where I'm just scared now, and I fervently hope I can save my son. I'm too late on saving myself… that ship sailed a long time ago. I've long suspected that this… crusade? Is that the right word? That it's going to be the death of me, but not for my boys. I want to see Dean take the car, join the Marines, become a fireman like he wished he would grow up to be before… before all this happened. I wish that I can see Sam go off to college and find a girl just like Mary so he can know a little of who his mother was._

_I wish Dean was awake. I wish my wife was here._


End file.
